


Consider Hieronymus, Who Was Once Tall and Handsome As You

by thevillainsmustache



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, dumpster-fire inquisitor, impossible men, kick the cuties, mostly angst, solas isnt a sex maniac just 5000 years horny, solas isnt dark just an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2020-07-25 16:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20028508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevillainsmustache/pseuds/thevillainsmustache
Summary: I. Hieronymus Lavellan is a bard and an outcast from the Dalish clan where she was raised. When news reaches her that her brother and sister were at the Conclave when it exploded, she seeks out the Inquisition to investigate their deaths. Rather than answers, she finds a Herald of Andraste very different than she had expected. Sascha Trevelyan is conceited, cowardly, and completely unchecked by the Inquisition. Thedas is headed for ruin, and Hero joins the Inquisition if not to help, then to watch the end of the world from the front lines.Original Companion Character.





	1. Prologue, or History Happens Twice

Prologue, or History Happens Twice 

“Hegel remarks somewhere that all great world-historic facts and personages appear, so to speak, twice. He forgot to add: the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.” -Karl Marx on revolutions in France, so bloody as to make the Dread Wolf blush. 

———

The Temple of Sacred Ashes exploded, and that was where the good news ended. 

Solas had been waiting for just such an event, sitting in Haven’s tavern and making notes when a noise like a tremendous pressure nearly blew the ear-dumbs of every human, elf, and dwarf there. The windows were not so lucky. Light shone past shattered glass, casing everything into a fade green hue. In the screaming and commotion, no one saw an elven apostate slip out. The Temple was destroyed, and everyone who attended the conclave was dead. He raised his hood; He had no desire to see the means to his ends, nor to be any nearer to the epicentre. Shockwaves in the fade rippled around him, and he could only flee when demons began falling from the sky. 

Corypheus had certainly unlocked the foci, just as Solas had planned. The deaths of the Divine and everyone else, well, war has casualties.

———

Though not total casualties, it would seem. In the coming days Solas all but searched the ruins of the temple himself for his foci. No rumours of strange magical artefacts or shattered remnants thereof reached his ears, but other strange news did. Someone survived the explosion at the conclave, fell out of a rift in the fade near its entrance. He was identified as Sascha Trevelyan, the youngest son of the Ostwick noble house. He did not escape unscathed. A wound laced with unknown magics was killing him. The world had questions, and the only one with any answers lay dying in a cell beneath Haven’s Chantry. 

Meanwhile, the breach in the fade caused by the explosion was expanding. More rifts appeared every day, not just near Haven, but across all of Thedas. The spirits drawn to these rifts flowed out like water, and the shock of the world warped them into demons. They were destroyed in the process, and more innocent kith were dying with them. There was no orb to show for his efforts, and the choice to trust Corypheus was looking more like a mistake. 

It was an easy decision in the end. Solas simply walked into Haven. When approached by guards, he surrendered his staff and asked to speak with someone in charge. They brought him to Liliana, Left Hand to the late Divine and spymaster for the fledgling Inquisition. Soon, but not as soon as he would have liked, she and Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast confirmed as much of his story as he’d given them, that he was an apostate but not with the rebel mages, and that he knew much of the nature of the fade. He was allowed to study the survivor and the mark on his hand. It had come from the orb, he was certain, and perhaps the power could be used to stop the damage he had caused. And in spite of an overwhelming feeling of deja vu, he stabilised the mark. 

Still, Sascha did not wake. Seeker Cassandra grew impatient, despite Solas’ assurances that he was doing all he could. The Breach grew and if Solas was wrong, even fleeing the Seeker’s wrath would not save him. But the Dread Wolf is rarely wrong. 

The young Trevelyan woke in time, groggy and in pain. Solas left instructions with Liliana and Cassandra, that Sascha was to be brought to the nearest rift to test his mark. If it could affect the tear in the fade, perhaps it was the key to closing the breach. Varric Tethras, the writer and famous companion of the Champion of Kirkwall, joined him in the valley. His companionship and wicked fast crossbow were much appreciated when facing the demons that poured from the rift. When things became most dire,  


Trevelyan and Cassandra appeared (such is the way of heroes, arriving just in the nick of time). The mark closed the rift with an ease that suggested to Solas that it wanted the same thing he did. Did he still exert some control or influence over the magic of the mark? It bore exploration, but for the moment it seemed the marks bearer could use it, and that was all that mattered. 

———

The mark did not close the breach, but it did stabilise it. Sascha fell unconscious again and the mark ceased its dangerous spreading. He was out of danger, and after hearing the resonant memories from the fade in the Temple, Cassandra no longer suspected him of involvement. There were still too many questions to be answered for Solas to leave now. Cassandra assured him that he would not be forced into a circle, but he could be forgiven for not trusting her explicitly. When the Herald of Andraste woke, and all the fears of death and imprisonment were lifted, he was more than pleased with his new title. So yes, Solas agreed to stay, as much to keep an eye on the man who bore the mark as to recover its source.


	2. And nothing changes

Chapter 1. And nothing changes

Seeker Cassandra’s orders were to do one last sweep of the valley around Haven before leaving for the Hinterlands. The chaos there was spreading, and it was of paramount importance that they secure the area. But first, Haven must be made safe. They couldn’t have the Herald of Andraste wandering into a pack of wolves. 

In a clearing just past the outer gate, Scout Harding stared up at the Breach. It was kind of beautiful, but in the way that a Watchtower on a hill, or a city wall was beautiful. It was impressive, terrifying, and its meaning was uncertain. Lace looked around. She was nearly alone. Another Scout, Riverflow was his name, was out of sight and earshot, but she knew he was near by. The sun was just rising and they would head back soon. 

Something caught in the corner of her vision, a speck of black against the snow. She knelt at the base of a tree where a black handkerchief lay flat, and resting on it, an ivory figurine. She picked it up and turned it in her hand. The bear felt heavy and comfortable to hold. Just as she thought of pocketing it, she froze. A sound, a whisper of a bowstring being drawn made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. 

She set the bear figurine down slowly, and turned to see a hooded elf crouched and and a ready arrow pointed at her.

“Are you with the Inquisition?” The elf said in low and lilty tones. 

Harding nodded. 

“What’s your rank?” 

“Lieutenant Scout,” she said, swallowing hard and turning her hands forward to show she was not holding a weapon. 

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she said paradoxically, still holding her bow at the ready. “I’m looking for two elves, apostates. They were at the Conclave.” 

Scout Riverflow was sneaking up behind the elf. If he attacked before she lowered her bow, she could loose her arrow accidentally. Harding shook her head almost imperceptibly. 

“I don’t know, I don’t know of any apostates in Haven.” 

“They would be siblings,” she said with new intensity, “Dalish.” 

Harding looked at the face of the elf under the hood. She had dark and deep-set eyes that seemed to be pleading. 

“Everyone who was at the Conclave died, except the Herald, that is.” 

The scout behind the elf was closing in, but waiting for Harding’s signal. 

After a long moment thinking, she lowered her bow and stood much taller than Harding expected. 

“I want to speak with the Herald.” 

Harding nodded, and Scout Riverflow promptly shield bashed the elf in the back, knocking the air from her lungs. She fell sprawling in the snow. Harding knelt on her while Riverflow bound her hands. 

“For fucks sake, is this really necessary?” She gasped

Harding pulled a blindfold over her eyes. “I would say so.”

———

They were supposed to be going to the Hinterlands, but the Herald and his advisors were so busy arguing over “which side they were on” that Solas was convinced the mages and templars would kill each other off before the Inquisition got around to doing anything. With no orders from the now self-proclaimed Herald, and nothing else to do, Solas was sitting with Varric and discussing trickers when they brought her in. 

Frog-marched by another scout and Harding carrying her bow, a blindfolded elf was being forced toward the Chantry. It was a scene he had witnessed too many times. Their crimes were irrelevant, but punishment was certain. In the year since he left Uthenera, he’d watched the remnants of his people slaughtered at the hands of Shemlin just as they had been by their own kind thousands of years before. The world spins and nothing changes. 

But this time, in the Inquisition that was here because of his mistakes, he would not stand by. He was here to help after all. 

Solas left Varric mid-sentence. “Where are you going, Chuckles?”

He jogged to catch up with Harding and her prisoner. “Hold up!” he called. 

They stopped, and Riverflow knocked the elf to her knees in the snow. 

“What is it?” Harding said, with more bite to her voice than Solas had heard before. 

“Who is your prisoner?” He gestured to her and she looked up at him with blindfolded eyes. She was taller than most elves, broader in the shoulder and thighs. Her hair was dark and thick, but trimmed so short in the style of shemlin men that the shape of her skull and her pale scalp were visible beneath. She had large, pointed ears that stuck out. Her face was angular without being sharp. She was pale, and there was a scar that ran over her full bottom lip. She had no Vallaslin. She was dressed like a commoner in a tunic and leggings with a cloak over her shoulders, but he suspected that she was a professional of some sort in the way she was calm despite her predicament. 

“She is none of your concern,” Harding said, breaking Solas from his examination. 

He grimaced. “Can you at least tell me her crime?” 

The elf kneeling before him smirked. 

“She threatened the life of an Inquisition agent and is most likely a spy.”

“Where are you taking her?”

“To a cell to await interrogation.” Riverflow wrenched hard on her bound arm in an attempt to pull her to her feet, but she didn’t budge. 

“I want to speak with the Herald of Andraste,” she demanded in a curious accent that Solas recognised. 

Scout Riverflow pulled on on her arm again, harder this time. She winced and nearly toppled over. “Really? Are you going accost him too?”

Solas reached out, putting a hand on Riverflow’s shoulder. He pushed him back gently. The scout seemed surprised, but not alarmed to be touched by the apostate. “Careful, da’len.”

The prisoner’s ears perked up, and she stared unseeingly at Solas again. 

Harding stepped between Riverflow and Solas. “This really is none of your business. Move along, or I’ll have to involve Commander Cullen.”

“Please do!” he exclaimed. Make a scene. Draw the attention of others and injustice cannot go unnoticed. “Fetch Leliana and Seeker Cassandra while you’re at it. I very much want their opinions on the matter.” 

Varric had been drawn over by the raised voices. “Harding, why is she blindfolded?” 

“It’s protocol, Varric. If she is a spy we don’t want her to know the layout of Haven.” 

He chuckled. “Really, because I’m pretty sure I can find a map of Haven in just about any library in Thedas.” 

“Please, I must ask to both of you to back off,” Harding squared her shoulders, and despite her stature, she was intimidating. 

“What’s going on here?” Sascha Trevelyan stood iconically above them from the top of the stairs. He descended with a slouching grace that shouted nobility. Solas had seen but not spoken to the Herald of Andraste since they stabilised the breach. He was looking much better; rather than pale and afraid, hair lank and face drawn, he was standing tall with a glow in his cheeks and his bright green eyes. His luscious pink lips were drawn into a self-satisfied smirk. He was handsome for a shemlin in spite of the brutal scars marking the right side of his face. 

“Your Worship, Scout Riverflow and I apprehended this trespasser outside haven.“ Harding stammered a little as she spoke. “She…”

Trevelyan raised a hand, cutting her off. “Why is she blindfolded?” 

“Its protocol, your Worship,” Riverflow said.

Varric scoffed. 

“Herald of Andraste?” The prisoner asked unexpectedly. “I did not come here with the motive to harm anyone, least of all you. I just want to ask you something.” 

Harding nudged Riverflow. “Get Cullen.” 

Riverflow jogged away, but Varric called after him. “The Seeker too!” 

“This is ridiculous. I’m not waiting for their permission. Take off her blindfold. I want to know what she wants.” 

Solas did so without waiting for Scout Harding to make a move. The prisoner blinked the light from her eyes. 

“Thank you,” she said, rubbing her eye against her shoulder to relieve an itch. “I promise this is a misunderstanding.” 

“She threatened me with bow!” Harding exclaimed. “Whatever her motives were, they can’t have been benign. Give her the chance and someone will get hurt.” 

Sascha gave the scout a hard look. “It’s not your job to make those sorts of judgements, Lieutenant.” He spit her rank at her. “I don’t know why you didn’t bring her straight to me when she arrived.” 

“We…” she began to protest, but threw her hands up when Cullen, Leliana, and Cassandra approached with Scout Riverflow in tow. 

Leliana was the first to speak. “Whatever this is, we should not be doing it out in the open,” she hissed to the forming crowd. 

Solas looked about and saw that all eyes in the vicinity were fixed on them. Ultimately that had been his goal, but now that the prisoner was out of immediate danger, the spectacle turned into just an inconvenience and embarrassment for the Inquisition. Harding nodded at Solas, who took the prisoner gently by the arm, helping her to her feet. She walked freely in front of him, lead by the Herald, and a the crowd followed behind them. 

Once in the Chantry, they headed for the Ambassadors office rather than the dungeons. Sascha knocked once and entered. “Ambassador, we may need your help with something.” 

Everyone began filing in, but Cassandra put her hand out, stopping Solas before he could enter. “Researcher Minaeve, would you wait outside with Solas, and Varric. Scout Riverflow, you may return to your duties.” The prisoner watched Minaeve leave. 

Solas would not be dismissed so easily. “I must insist on remaining,” he said and tried to push past Cassandra. She did not allow him through. 

“Let him, Cassandra,” said a voice from behind her. She turned to see Leliana watching them, exasperated. The Seeker looked to the Herald, who shrugged. She let him past and shut the door behind him. 

“Alright,” Cullen said, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “What happened here?” 

Harding and the prisoner began speaking simultaneously. 

Josephine stepped around her desk, with a new sheet of paper on her board. “Scout Harding, why don’t you begin.” 

Solas stepped back against the wall, merely wanting to watch. 

“Scout Riverflow and I were completing a sweep of the valley when this unknown elf approached with her bow drawn. She demanded information about the Inquisition and the events at the Conclave, and I gave her all the non-compromising information I could, by which time Riverflow was able to sneak up behind her. I was able to talk her into lowering her weapon. We apprehended her and were bringing her to the Chantry when some civilians impeded out progress.” 

The prisoner sneered but kept silent. She looked about the small room at her judges. 

“What sort of information did she demand?” Leliana said, stepping forward. 

“She inquired about specific individuals. I did not recognise them.” 

“Two apostates,” the prisoner said, and all eyes turned to her. She stood up taller, holding her hands behind her back which made her look pensive rather than bound. “I can give you written descriptions of them if you like.” 

No one replied.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I not supposed to speak?” She tilted her head to the side. “Have I disobeyed the rules of this very formal hearing? Everything the Scout said is true. I approached her with a bow, but my intention was never to hurt anyone. I simply wanted answers. She didn’t have them so now I’m asking you.

“I have information that two elven apostates intended to be at the Temple of Sacred Ashes when it was destroyed. I approached Haven covertly, because if they are here I wanted my presence to remain a secret to them.” She glared over her shoulder at Solas. “They are Dalish mages who were sent to the Conclave to spy on its outcome.” 

Solas nodded and smiled, now realising why he recognised her accent. 

“What is your purpose in tracking them?” Leliana inquired. 

“I…” She stammered. “They told me themselves they were going to the Conclave. When I heard of the explosion, I had to know, I had to see myself if they had escaped or…” Her eyes hardened, and she pressed her lips together. 

“If they were indeed in the Temple as you suspect, then your friends are dead.” Cullen said quietly. 

“I know,” she said, turning now to Sascha, “but you were there. If you saw them I could know for sure. They would have been about my height, red haired with vallaslin.”

The Herald shook his head. “I don’t remember anything from the Conclave. You have no idea how many people have asked me what I saw. I can’t help you.” He smiled condescendingly and placed a hand on her shoulder. 

A feeling like a bow string being plucked resonated through the elf. There was grief, yes, that she would never know what happened to those she sought. She looked right through the Herald of Andraste when the needle of a compass in her spun and stuck, pointing her. She focused on the feeling, the sound and taste of it, a buzz and hum like the adrenaline of the hunt when you don’t know which of you is the hunter. She recognised the electric intuition that filled her. Of course she had a choice. She could turn tail and flee at the first chance, but she wouldn’t. She didn’t before, and it had almost killed her. 

“I want to join the Inquisition.” 

Someone laughed, but she kept her eyes on the Herald who appraised her without word. 

Cassandra stepped forward. “You can’t be serious. You were caught covertly infiltrating Haven and now you want to join the Inquisition.” 

She smirked. “That can hardly be called an infiltration. I didn’t even enter the village.”

“We don’t even know who you are,” Cullen exclaimed, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Then allow me to introduce myself.” She stepped back so she was looking at everyone. “My name is I. Hieronymus Lavellan. I was trained as a Bard in Val Royeaux for many years. I have contact that can confirm my identity and my particular skillset.” She tipped her head to Josephine. “Ambassador Montilyet, for instance. It is good to see you again.” 

“Of course, I apologise for not recognising you sooner.” The lovely ambassador returned the gesture to the bound and dirt elf. 

“I was heavily disguised when we last met at the Summer Palace. I do not fault you.” 

Solas heard her accent flex into something more formal, and watched as all other inhabitants of the room gawked at Hieronymus. 

Josephine leaned back against her desk, relaxing. “She is who she says she is.” 

No one else seemed as convinced however. 

“We already have a Bard,” said Cullen, gesturing at Leliana who was scowling. “Why should we need another.” 

“Oh yes,” she rebutted, “Because Haven is so secure. I snuck right up to your door and I wasn’t even trying. No offence meant,” she said to the spymaster. “The Inquisition is small now but growing every day. Haven was not built to keep people in or out.” 

“She is right.” Cullen crossed his arms, looking weary. “Perhaps if we can corroborate her story, if she is being sincere, then there are ways she could assist the Inquisition. If others could approach as she did then they will. She could consult on that business.” 

Cassandra held her fingers to her lips, thinking. “I agree. The Inquisition is growing but not fast enough. Who are we to turn away the faithful when the come to our doors?”

Solas lifted a hand to cover the frightful smirk he felt spreading across his face. 

“I appreciate the sentiment, Seeker, but I regret to inform you that I am not the faithful. I was born to the Dalish and was raised in their customs.” She watched Cassandras face harden somewhat. “If that is a problem…” 

“It isn’t,” said Josephine. “The Inquisition was formed on the orders of the Divine, but the Chantry as a whole has denounced us as heretics. This war will not be won with piety alone.” 

Sascha cut off the ambassador. “Hold on, I don’t understand. You’re Dalish?” 

Hieronymus nodded, watching the questions and confusion grow in his eyes. 

“But you don’t have, you know.” He paused, then gestured mutely to his face. 

Behind her, the jaws of most everyone in the room dropped. Hieronymus could only blink at the profundity of his ignorance. “Vallaslin,” she finished for him. “I was banished before I could come of age. It’s sometimes done, such as if there are too many mages in a clan already and a child shows a talent for magic.” 

“But you’re not a mage?” he said. 

“No. It was just a metaphor.” 

The Seeker was rubbing her forehead. “I am not convinced that you are not a threat to us, but I have been known to be wrong.” She looked about at the other of rank in the study. “I leave the decision to you, Herald.” 

He took a pen knife from Josephine’s desk and cut Hieronymus’ bonds. “Welcome to the Inquisition,” he said. 

“You will be watched,” added Leliana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Thank you to everyone who has begun this journey with me. I love all the love and feedback I've gotten.
> 
> Also, I just wanted to assure y'all that I adore Lace Harding. It hurt me so badly to make her seem like the bad guy here. She was just doing her job, and Solas got all up in her business with his "F*** the police" attitude. She will get her comeuppance and redemption.


	3. A Herald and a Hero

Chapter 2. A Herald and a Hero

Varric sort of swaggered into the Chantry. Sort of, because he had never felt welcome in a Chantry’s halls, but he felt there was no other way sinners and heretics could walk past chanters than to swagger, so he did his best. A blizzard had moved into Haven, and while most people were taking shelter in their homes or the tavern, neither booze nor his own company could comfort him, not when a hole in the sky was staring back at him. To say that he came to the Chantry for comfort, that would be taking things a bit far, but there was an elf crouched in the back with a story that could distract him. 

As he approached, he heard raised voices from the War Room. No doubt that is what had drawn her to this particular place. He pulled a chair up next to where she was leaning her back flat against the stone wall, eyes closed and fingers studying a talisman. “What’s that you have there, I. Hieronymus? That’s a hell of a mouthful, you know.” 

“I stole it from Scout Harding,” she said, sighing with her eyes still closed. “And people just call me Hero.” 

He raised an eyebrow at her, and she opened her eyes, smirking. “She stole it from me first.” She pocketed the ivory bear. 

“I knew a Hero once, it wasn’t his name, no one even called him that, but he paid a heavy price to get that title.” 

Hero thought of the Champion of Kirkwall, she met him once, a lifetime ago. It was before he was the Champion, just some bloke in Lowtown who knew someone who could help. It seemed like there was a lot of that going around in Kirkwall. 

“What do you think he would do if here were here?” she mused. 

“You mean if this shit didn’t kill him first? The Seeker actually wanted him at the Conclave. That’s why I’m here. She hoped to ‘persuade’ me to get him involved.”

“Sure, and no doubt you would have,” she smirked, showing off sharp, white canines. 

“If I knew where he was. But I was right. It wouldn’t have mattered if Hawk was at the Conclave. He would just be dead, too.” He propped an elbow on a knee, smirking at Hero. “But to answer your question, he wouldn’t be sitting on his ass waiting for the world to end. He wouldn’t be bickering like an old woman either,” he said, giving the door to the war room a dirty look. 

She groaned. “They’ve been at it for hours. It’s just cyclical. If I had a gold piece for every time Josephine said ‘this is getting us nowhere,’ I could buy the Inquisition.” 

“What are they even arguing about,” he mused. 

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure they’re arguing for different things. It’s like…” she trailed off, looking down at the floor. 

“It’s like the Herald is stalling, isn’t it?” He said in hushed tones. 

She huffed, “I’m glad I’m not the only one to notice.” 

Varric scratched his chin. “I would have gotten it eventually, I think, but Chuckles told me.” 

“He’s pitting them against each other. What’s his game?” She paused. “Who’s Chuckles?” 

“The apostate, Solas.” 

Hero smiled. “When do I get an ironic nickname?” 

“When you start acting ironical.” The door beside them opened, and four angry advisors followed Sascha, who looked only superficially frustrated. 

“Does Solas have theories on the Herald’s motives?” Her voice was low. 

Varric shrugged. “He didn’t share them with me, but it’s probably worth asking him.” 

Hero followed the advisors who peeled off one by one to their respective workstations. The Herald walked with Cullen, and Hero heard snippets of an argument. She took a left outside the Chantry, where it was sleeting now, toward the little group of cottages where Solas was living. He was leaning against his home under the lea of the roof away from the precipitation, looking pensive, his cool grey eyes taking in weather and commotion at the Chantry. 

The edges of his lips rose as Hero approached, shielding her face from the wet. “Andaran atish’an, lethallen,” he said in smooth tones. “How are you settling in?” 

Hero tried to hide her scowl. Somehow the Elven greeting felt too formal, but also too familiar coming from a stranger. It had been almost a decade since she had heard her people’s tongue. “Lethallen?” she asked, crossing her arms at the cost of exposing her face to sleet. 

“I apologise if that was incorrect. You don’t strike me as,” he paused, as if searching for a word, “a totally feminine person.” 

“Oh.” She touched the roughness of her hair on instinct, an impulse she developed as a child when she first cut it so short. There was masculinity in her appearance. Her torso was flat, her shoulders strong, and she was nearly as tall as the elf who stood opposite her. This is who she was. “I thought you were going to say I didn’t strike you as a friend, which would be a more correct,” she clipped. 

His eyes narrowed. “I thought we covered that when I rescued you yesterday.” 

She stepped closer to him under the protection of the house. “I had that completely under control.” 

He laughed at her. His grin was patronising, but beautiful. “You can’t be serious. You were bound and blindfolded.” 

She had an urge to punch him. “It wasn’t exactly according to the plan, but I would have talked my way out of it. I’m a bard, it’s what I do. I didn’t need a big elf man butting in.” 

“You under estimate what these shemlin are capable of if you believe they would have let you speak before making a judgement.” 

“No, you underestimate me and them," she sneered. She hadn't wanted to fight with him. "You were a hermit, yes? What do you know of the world except the view of an outsider? Is Cassandra not protecting you? Did the Herald not release me at the first opportunity?” 

“Did you want something from me?” He growled, his eyebrows furrowing in the middle. 

“Sascha,” she began, but Solas interrupted her. 

“I haven’t seen him.” 

“He’s with the Commander.” She grimaced, “I thought at least they might get along, but I thought I heard Trevelyan call him a Dog-Lord.” 

Solas sighed. “There really is nothing he won’t say.” 

“Yes, I’ve gathered as much. Varric told me that you believe Sascha is intentionally stalling the Inquisition.” 

“I wish he hadn’t.” 

“Well I came to the same conclusion, so it wasn’t much of a reveal.” She leaned against the wall next to Solas as Apothecary Adan walked by, trying her best to appear relaxed rather than conspiratorial. “He’s publicly declared himself the Herald of Andraste and the Inquisition’s mission sacred. Why would he get in the way of its progress? If he were allied with the enemy, well, there are more effective and subtle methods of sabotage.” 

“What do you know of him?” Solas asked, head cocked to the side, like a wolf listening for his prey. 

“He is the youngest son of House Trevelyan from Ostwick. He and all his brothers were invited to the Conclave as dignitaries. The Trevelyan family is quite pious, which explains his response to this Herald business. I hear he is a rather talented archer.” She paused, trying to think of anything else. “He has magnificent eyelashes.” 

Solas grinned. “But you know nothing of his personality?” 

“I’ve not spoken to him since he accepted me into the Inquisition yesterday,” she said, shaking her head. 

“His motives are a mystery to me,” he said in a low and quiet voice. “I agree with your analysis that he is not the enemy of the Inquisition. For one, I believe such a complicated plot would tax his mind too greatly. Secondly, I cannot imagine a situation in which Trevelyan would put himself in danger. 

“When I first met the Herald, Cassandra dragged him by his armour close enough to a rift for me to use his mark to close it. He hid behind Cassandra for the whole assault on the breach. The leaders of the Inquisition would have certainly still believed him a conspirator if it were not for the memories we all experienced at the Temple of Sacred ashes.

“I’ve not spoken with him in the weeks since the breach was stabilised, but I’ve been watching Trevelyan. When authority is passed to him, uses it to its full extent. If a favour or task is asked of him, he readily accepts then orders someone else to complete it. He uses bureaucratic and diplomatic methods to swing duties away and powers toward himself. He uses piety to manipulate Cassandra and Leliana, duty and justice on Cullen and Josephine. He has barely said a civil word to anyone he believes lower than himself. His behaviour with you yesterday was generous, but I hoped to use his desire to appear righteous to your advantage.” Solas grimaced. Having the facts of the Inquisitions situation laid out was uncomfortable. “You want my thoughts on the Herald of Andraste? He is ambitious, petty, manipulative, and more than anything else he is a coward. He is the most dangerous person I could imagine be given that title and the power in his mark.” 

Hieronymus thought for a long moment while Solas watched her. She wondered if Solas liked to hear himself talk, because she had to admit she enjoyed his lilty cadence. The sleet had ceased, and there was the quiet hum around them just after the end of a storm. The people had not yet emerged, and nothing but the wind murmured in the streets and halls of Haven.

"Are you afraid, Solas?" she asked, watching him with eyes bright and curious. 

He did not like the turn their conversation had taken. "Er, am I afraid of Sascha Trevelyan?" 

She shook her head. "No, just in general. Though I wouldn't fault you for being afraid of him also. What I meant is there is a hole in the Fade, demons are falling from the sky. By all accounts, the world is ending, and we're on the front line. Are you afraid?”

It took a moment for Solas to not be offended by the question. "I came here because nowhere is safe from the destruction of the breach if it continues to spread. I would be a fool not to be afraid." 

Hero grinned. "Anyone else could leave the Inquisition if they were a coward." She stepped away from the house, walking backwards with her hands outstretched. "But with that mark on his hand, Sascha is trapped here. It's a rather scary situation for a coward."  
"What are you planning?" he asked in bewilderment. 

She shrugged. "The best manipulation have a kernel of empathy." 

Solas watched her go. 

———

After a brilliant morning watching his advisors argue and criticising Commander Cullen's work with the troops (how were they supposed to take the Hinterlands when the army couldn't make a decent shield wall? He'd learned that from a book he'd stolen from Josephine) Sascha was on his way to the kitchens to yell at some elves. Something bright flashed in front of him, sticking in a wooden support beam right next to his face with a sickening thunk. He spun around with such vigour that he fell in the snow. The Bard, Hieronymus, sauntered forward. 

"Whoops," she said, pulling a throwing knife from the beam. "It slipped." 

He jumped up, bushing the snow off his fanciest leather trousers. "You could have killed me," he hissed. 

"Not really. Unless you'd flinched into the path of my blade. Terrible reflexes you have, Herald." 

His nose wrinkled in disgust and rage. "Listen here, knife ear, I brought you into the Inquisition and I could have you thrown out just as easily." 

She raised a hand, silencing him. "I joined the Inquisition to help you. I'm only doing as I promised." She handed him her knife, and he took it hesitantly. "How does the Inquisition expect you to fight when you fight when you don't even know how to hold a knife.”

"I'm an archer. I don't need to know how to hold a knife. And as the Herald, I can't be risked anywhere near the battle." 

"Planning not to be near the battle and actually being out of danger are different things, and you know it." She took his hand, adjusting his hold on the blade. "When Templars and Mages are coming at you, and Cassandra is trying to hold them off, some will get through. Even the best archer is vulnerable in close quarters." She stepped back, then knocked the knife out of his hand in one smooth motion, and caught it in the air.

She handed it back to him. "Hold it with a firmer grip, but not so tight as to be stiff. There, like that." She tried to knock it out of his hand again, but this time he kept it. "Very good." 

He tried to give the knife back, but Hero shook her head. "That one's yours. You'll need it. Meet me in at the training grounds tomorrow morning." 

———

Varric watched from afar with Cassandra. 

"She's been here for a day and she's done more for the Inquisition than anyone has since the Herald fixed the Breach," the dwarf said, smirking. 

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. "Are you writing the book already, Varric?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter felt like dropping bricks on my feet while running a marathon. Thank you to everyone who is reading and commenting. Y'all keep me going.


	4. I had not thought death had undone so many

Chapter 3. I had not thought death had undone so many

"I'm fucking tired!" Sascha shouted at Hero, throwing down his staff. She whacked him in the shin with hers, and he cried out, disarming her smoothly. 

"Very good," she said while he glowered. They were practicing outside Haven and away from the troops. It was midday by now. Hero had knocked on his door at dawn, and when he didn't answer she entered anyway with a bucket of water from the lake. His mood had only deteriorated from there. They were dressed in prowler armour to get him used to the feel and movement of it. He kept pulling at the breast plate despite Hero adjusting it four times for him. For the last hour they had been training with staffs. Disarming a mage wouldn't stop them using magic, but knowing how to use their staff against them could save Sascha's life. 

He threw the staff at her and Hero caught it gracefully. He poked her shoulder above her breastplate. "I said I'm tired," he growled. 

"Besides that, how are you feeling?" She picked up the other staff. "More confident?"

He wiped his face with a handkerchief. Even with the bitter wind, sweat was running down her back, and their faces were pink with exertion. "I suppose. I guess we won't really know until I get to the Hinterlands." 

She grinned. "Any news on that front?" 

"No," he shook his head. "But I've scheduled a war meeting and maybe I can knock some sense into the advisors with some of the moves you've showed me." He punched her on the shoulder. "Join me for luncheon?"

"No, thank you, Herald." She was feeling hot an queasy. She hadn't slept properly since she arrived at Haven two days before, and the world was getting wobbly. "I'll just tidy up." 

He had already turned his back and walked away. She knelt on the ground, wetting a handkerchief and holding it to her throat. It felt good and horrible all at once, the water ice cold and her skin too hot. She groaned. 

"Your efforts are admirable," said a smooth voice behind her, "but you'll be no use to the Herald if you don't rest." 

She turned on her knees to see Solas standing over her, bundled in furs and barefoot. "Thanks for your concern, but I'll be fine." She gave him a once over. "I haven't seen you out here before." 

He lifted a handful of elfroot from a pocket in explanation. "I only leave for necessary supplies. Everyone knows there are bards hiding in the woods waiting to ambush Inquisition agents." 

Hero raised an eyebrow. He was so impassive she almost missed the jab. She stood, staff in hand. "I'm sure you're safe. They wouldn't attack a defenceless hedgemage like you." 

Solas' nose wrinkled. "Where did you learn to wield a staff?" 

"Were you impressed?" she asked with a smirk.

"Not remotely." 

She shrugged, tugging the straps on her breast plate. "My brother and sister were mages. I used to help them practice." 

Solas sighed, and she watched him. "The apostates, the twins you came form." 

Hero nodded. 

"What were their names?" 

"Renan and Dirthadin. They were both the firsts of our clan." She began gathering the practice weapons, looking for an exit from this conversation, but Solas took them from her hands and followed her to the armoury. 

"Two firsts? That is rather unorthodox." 

"Is it?" she asked with intentional obtusity. "What do you know of the Dalish?" 

"More than I care to." 

Hero took the practice weapons from him, dumping them unceremoniously into the armoury before slamming the door. "Tell me, Solas," she sneered. "What does an apostate want to do for the Inquisition? Surely your purpose here isn't diplomatic. I can only imagine how easily you would antagonise potential allies against the cause." 

"I want to close the breach, just like everyone else here." He held his arms behind his back, looking more self-righteous than the Herald. "Only, I am more uniquely qualified to help."

"Really? How so? Do you plan to annoy the breach into closing?" 

Solas leaned in. "I've journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilisations. I've watched as hosts of spirits clash to re-enact the blood past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. The secrets whispered to me in my dreams have saved Travelyan's life, and stopped the spread of the Breach. I've bought the Inquisition time that Sascha is now wasting. What have you done, besides teaching him a few knife tricks?" 

Her eyebrows shot up, but she quickly levelled her expression. "You're a Dreamer?" 

Solas was surprised too. "Is that what the Dalish call it?" 

"In Tavinter they call them Somniari. Does the Herald know this about you? Across Thedas where they are known dreamers are feared and reviled." 

"You have more faith in his ability to understand the implications of my talent than I did. My trust has not been misplaced." He watched Hieronymus' reactions, her arms crossed and eyes suspicious. "Seeker Cassandra warns me about the evils of spirit possession, but so far the Inquisition has been accommodating." 

"And what of things other than spirits that dwell in the Fade?" she asked, voice low. 

Solas was taken aback. Was this some kind of test? "What do you mean? The Fade is the realm of spirits. There is nothing else there." 

He expected her to look smug, to pretend she knew something he didn't, but she turned away from him, face falling into a forlorn expression. In this light and at this angle, the dark circles under her eyes were more prominent than before. 

"Perhaps you should rest, da'len" he said, returning to the origins of their argument. "Apothecary Adan makes a tea that will help you sleep. The Fade can be very restorative." 

"Perhaps you shouldn't patronise me, hahren," she snapped, her head giving an all-mighty ache. "I can take care of myself." 

Someone cleared their throat. Solas and Hero both turned to see Cassandra standing behind them with an armful of practice dummies, eyebrows raised.

They had been blocking the way to the Armoury. Hero opened the door for her. 

"I hope you two can settle your differences before we travel to the Hinterlands." 

Hero did a double take. "Wait, what?" 

Solas smirked and nodded to Cassandra, walking off toward Haven with more swagger in his hips than necessary. 

"I just spoke with Trevelyan, and it's settled. We will be joining the Inquisitions forces in the Hinterlands first thing tomorrow. Mother Giselle has been at the Crossroads there and urges the Herald to retake the region." 

Hero pressed a hand to her face. "I understand that, Seeker, but surely he doesn't want me to go with him? I… There is work still for me to do here." 

"He mentioned you by name," Cassandra said, smirking. 

"Where is he?" 

Cassandra gestured vaguely toward the village. "He was leaving the Chantry." 

Hero trotted up the steps, passing Solas and Varric sitting around the fire. Sascha was arguing with the requisitions officer when Hero approached, out of breath. 

"Why in the Void do you want me to go to the Hinterlands?"  
Sascha turned to her, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. "To watch my back. You've proven yourself to be a valuable ally very quickly. I want you near by when the fighting starts." 

"But the point of training you was to give you confidence in yourself. I can't protect you. I'm not a warrior." 

He smirked and strode down the steps toward his house, Hero following at his heel. "Neither am I. This is what the Inquisition asks of us, and it's what we must do." He stood in his doorway, sneering at Hero as she cast about for something to say that would convince him. "Really, did you think the Herald of Andraste would do as you say and not as you do?" He slammed the door in her face. 

A pair of chuckles echoed in the wind behind her. 

———

And perhaps her reaction was extreme. She could admit that to herself as the sun set over Haven, and she sat far above the town, watching scouts and soldiers milling about. From atop the monoliths across the lake from Haven, the Breach loomed above and rivalled the importance of the letter in her hand. She'd read it so many times the ink was fading in the places she where she'd held it. It was no matter; she'd long since memorised the words written in her brother's familiar hand. 

Little Bear,  
Ithaca says something stirs in the South. I tried to tell him what I know you would, that the danger to Din and I is too great with the Templars going mad. She wouldn't hear it either, so I write to you now before we leave. We will be moving covertly and it's too risky to send letters on the road. Don't expect to hear from us for sometime.  
The Divine is holding a Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes to talk sense into the Mages and Templars, as I'm sure you've heard if the news has reached this far. He said to start there, and I'd be more comfortable butting in on Shem business if I only knew what we were looking for. All he's told us is that the Dread Wolf has returned and that we must help him. Dinan seems to understand him, and I'll follow her to the end of Thedas if I must.  
For the first time since you brought Dinan back, we'll be on the same side of Thedas. When this turns out to be paranoia, we will come to you in Orlais. Expect two embarrassingly Dalish elves at the most inconvenient moment.  
Dareth Shiral, Ren

In her other hand, she worried the bear icon Renan had given her when she'd last seen him. She was so happy to receive the letter months ago. Renan and Dinan were seasoned mages, more than capable of protecting themselves against the Templars. She'd even planned to join them in Ferelden when the news reached her of the explosion at the conclave. 

She did not, even now, accept that they were dead. Her siblings had practically raised her, and she'd been absent for most of their life, but every moment still hung in her mind on the fact that they were alive and in the world. It was a foolish hope to hold, but she had no proof; their bodies could not be recovered or identified. 

And that is why she had not slept in Haven. And if Ithaca believed Fen'Harel was stalking around Thedas, devouring stray Dalish elves, if he had anything to do with her siblings' death, she may just go wolf-hunting. 

The world was getting wiggly now, and ultimately Solas was right. Hero had battled sleep all her life and knew that she would be useless tomorrow if she didn't compromise with her fear and sleep tonight. She returned to Haven, stopping by the hearth where Varric usually resided. He was not there now. She took the letter from her pocket and without hesitation she dropped it into the flames. 

On her cot that night, she practiced her breathing the way Dinan had taught her. The first night in a new place was always hardest, and death had undone so many here and recently. But she would see her brother and sister again. And maybe something more. 

———

Hero gasped and knocked away the hand that was shaking her. Her mind slammed back into her body, both beautiful and horrible, solid but pleasant compared to the bodies she'd felt in the Fade. She was in her tent, under her blankets. The wind blowed bitterly into the small space, and through the gap in the tent-flaps, she could see that it was not even daybreak. She groaned. 

"Ir abelas, lethallen," said Solas, whose hand she had slapped away. He was crouching next to her cot, eyebrows furrowed. His eyes were dark in the low light. 

"Am I late?" she grumbled, voice stuck in her throat. 

He pulled his hand back. "Not yet. Cassandra wants to leave at dawn." She watched his hands, one wrapped in the other, caught in the light from the fire outside. Sleep did strange things to her mind. "I was concerned that you would oversleep."

His expression was peculiar, and she wondered if he knew from where he had woken her. "Your concern is very generous," she said in low and clipped tones. She groaned and stretched. She could at least try to be polite. "Ma serannas, lethallin." 

He smiled. 

"Now get out. I don't have trousers on." 

His smile transformed into a smirk and he bowed his head before gracefully making his exit. 

Hero packed her bags, and packed away a chronicle of the night. Such things were better considered in the light of day. She could formulate a question for Solas that would give up as little as possible, while gaining from him any context he may possess. Luckily, he seemed the kind of man who liked talking about how much he knows. 

The sky was was a pale indigo when Hero left her tent for good. The bustle and noise was centred away from the camp and in Haven, so she followed her sharp ears, hoping a cup of tea would be waiting to soothe her.

She smacked right into an armoured man, hard enough to almost knock the air out of her. He stumbled, and apologised. 

It was Commander Cullen. How easily her ire could be provoked in the early morning. "Sorry, Knight Captain." 

He nodded, then stopped and looked back at Hieronymus. Dark circles were distinct under his hazel eyes, and his hair was bed-rumpled. She was not the only one who didn't sleep well, it seemed. "That is not my title," he said hesitantly.

"Of course not." She bowed her head. "My apologies, Commander." 

He searched her appearance for something recognisable. "Have we met before?" 

"Not at all, sir. Is the Herald ready to depart?" she asked, changing the subject before he could blink. 

"Er, no. I believe Cassandra is rousing him now." 

Hero carried on, feeling the Commanders confused stares behind her. It used to be easier for her to ignore her impulses. Since joining the Inquisition, despite her still probationary position, she'd picked fights with a mage, spoken blasphemy about the Herald of Andraste, and now she was antagonising the Inquisition's commander. She was not used to facing people from that part of her past, which was not an excuse for her behavior, just the reason for it. But if Cullen could so easily forget his crimes as Knight Captain, she would not feel bad for reminding him. 

She sat next to Varric, drinking tea and watching Cassandra try to wake Sascha. Though his open door they could hear the Seeker's pleading, sounding like a tired and over-indulgent mother. It had not escaped escaped Hero's notice that Solas had made an effort to wake her even before Cassandra had woken Sascha. 

"The bucket worked well enough yesterday," she said, hunching over her mug in the bitter morning air. 

Varric chuckled. "I said the same thing to the Seeker, but she 'wants him in a good mood today'. Where was that compassion when she kidnaped me into her Inquisition?" 

"Didn't she say you could leave?" 

"Well, yes, but she was very rude to me before." 

Dawn came and went before Sascha emerged like a baby bird from his egg, demanding food. The Hinterlands were a whole morning's ride from Haven, especially as Cassandra insisted on checking in with Leliana's scouts every hour to be sure the road was safe. They spoke little on the road. Varric told stories of Hawk to the two elves and two humans, until Cassandra warned him that his blabbing would summon every rebel mage in the region. It was not long before Hieronymus could see smoke rising in the distance. 

Scout Harding approached them just as they began to hear the fighting. She approached the Herald, giving Solas, Varric, and especially Hero weary looks. She quickly explained the situation, and Hero listened in, pretending to be adjusting her bootlace. Mother Giselle was supposedly at the crossroads, but the fighting between mages and templars had spread there too. The Inquisition's forces had not reached Master Dennet yet. Those were their primary targets. If the Herald could subdue some of the fighting and close some fade rifts along the way, so much the better. 

"It seems the way forward is clear," Hero said, walking next to Sascha down a hill that lead to the crossroads. Battles never sound the way one would expect, not constant and thunderous, but shocking, disjointed, horrifically personal.

Sascha was sweating, even though it wasn't hot. 

"Just remember what I taught you." She patted his shoulder. 

He turned to her, his green eyes wide with panic. "I don't think I'm ready for this." 

Hero and Cassandra exchanged looks, then glanced back at the men. The Seeker unsheathed her sword. "We won't let anything happen to you, Herald."

Hero took a deep breath. They could see the fighting now. She readied herself to disappear. Cassandra had her shield, but she had stealth. 

Sascha's voice was trembling, but his bow was steady. "Ready," he said. 

Solas cast a barrier around them all. 

Varric grinned. "Let's do the thing." 

———

Hero was not a warrior. She'd never fought in a battle and really thought it would last longer. In the space of two minutes she narrowly escaped death twice, killed three templars, one mage, and lost one knife. After giving up on finding her blade, having picked over every body she'd contacted during the fight, she joined Solas and Varric where they sat at the base of some stairs. Sascha and Cassandra were presently meeting with Mother Giselle. 

"The kid took that well, don't you think," Varric said as he inspected the mechanics of his crossbow. 

Hieronymus shrugged, but Solas spoke for her. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. The first time you take a life, it changes you." 

"You don't think he shot a friend in the dark on a hunting trip at a frightfully young age?" she mused. 

Varric snorted, "No, Chuckles is right. You saw him before the battle. Sascha is a green horn. Your first kill is like losing your virginity. You never forget it and it's usually bad." 

A terrifying thought gripped Hero in the silent moments that followed. She could not remember the first person she killed. Was it Elana, only a year older than she had been and swept away by the current? Anyone would call it an accident but Hero had stood so still, so calmly and watched her childhood friend vanish under the waves. Or perhaps Collin who had pinched her nipple in the house of the nobleman where she lived for a year after the accident? She'd felt remorse, guilt, self-hatred, but some part of her loved the feeling of pushing him hard, the sound of his head smashing against hard stone. Or did she need to go further back? An argument could be made that she came into this world a murderer, bathed in her mothers blood. 

Hero's face burned, and she felt the ghost of Solas' gaze on her. She cleared her throat, covering up her guilty thoughts with a blurted phrase. "I lost my virginity to a pirate." 

Varric snapped his fingers. "Bear Cub!" he shouted. 

Solas looked round at them both as if they'd lost their minds. 

"I knew I recognised you," said the dwarf. "Why didn't you say something?" 

Hero shrugged. "I didn't have the best time in Kirkwall." 

"No one does." 

Sascha joined them, sauntering down the steps between Hero and Varric, always the centre of attention. "Let's go. Master Dennet awaits." 

The elves stood, but Solas hung back, watched Hieronymus and contemplated what he knew of her short but deep history.


	5. Druffy the Demon Slayer

Chapter 4. Druffy the Demon Slayer

Solas sat against a tree in camp, adjusting his footbindings. He watched the shemlin, more particularly Cassandra's expression grow more incredulous my the moment. Sascha had, at one point, actually thumped his chest with a fist, only to injure himself on his own breastplate. 

"They know we're here now, and they're shitting themselves with fear of the inquisition. We need to hit them fast and hard, drive all the mages and templars from the valley, and fucking exterminate them." He was gesturing wildly, his eyes dilated even in the bright afternoon light. The blood on his boots was still wet from the battle. 

Corporal Vale was looking frantically between Cassandra and Sascha. He knew the Herald had authority but he wouldn't send his men away from camp on a suicide mission without the Seeker's orders. She could hardly get a word in edgewise. 

Hero approached from up the hill, brow furrowed in worry and carrying some supplies. She passed Solas without notice, but he watched her walk away with particular interest. She dropped the rucksack on the grass and listened patiently to Cassandra as she gave a detailed account to Sascha of the dangers and costs of such an attack. 

He cut across her mid-sentence. "Hero, what do you think? You're intelligent for an elf." 

Her lips pulled into a grimace that she quickly smoothed over. "Well, I just returned from the crossroads, and the refugees there are in real need of assistance. Perhaps we should begin here and," but the Herald interrupted her too. 

"Sod the refugees. We need horses for the Inquisition." 

Hero exchanged a commiseratory glance with Cassandra. "And what, you wanna just go get them." 

"Against all the Inquisitions forces in the Hinterlands, what are some wild mages?"

"And the Templars," she said throwing up her hands. "Remember how you almost got skewered before Cassandra knocked that big one down?" 

"And the Rifts," added Cassandra. "We're still close to Haven and more demons pour from the rifts every day."

"And the wildlife." Vale jumped in with a thick Ferelden accent. "We've had reports of dangerous wolves to the north west and great bears to the south west." 

"Right in the direction of Master Dennet," Hero said, but Sascha was unconvinced. 

So Solas tuned them out. For a while he watched Varric talking with Scout Harding. He then meditated on the energy in the fade, the flowing from rifts, and pulses of artefacts of ancient elves that he suspected lay hidden in these lands. 

He stood when a weary looking Hero approached him. "We're heading West," she grumbled. 

Solas adjusted his grip on his staff. "Should I prepare to meet my death?" he asked with a smirk in his voice. 

"No," she replied, harsher than necessary. "There is a lake and a potential campsite up valley." She smirked at him then. "We will be facing Templars, apostate. Death won't wait for you to prepare." 

He pondered whether that was a threat as she fetched Varric from Harding. 

———

Their camp sat beneath the lake on a ledge, next to a waterfall that didn’t do much to drown out the fighting below. They'd met little resistance on their their short trek; most of the team’s efforts were focused on keeping Sascha from shooting everything that moved. Hero hoped that his jumped-up macho attitude would wear off quickly. It was more likely to kill them than any enemy in the woods. The sun was beginning to set over the hills, and Hero released herself from her boots and the effort to plan their next move with Cassandra. After all, she was the warrior, the tactician. In the eyes of Sascha, Hero was a glorified body guard, a far cry from her specialty. 

Solas was standing on the edge of the camp, examining an artifact they’d discovered, a skull perched on a fencepost, through which on could view other artefacts in the distance. He’d called it an ocuarum. He wrote in a journal, facing away from Hero, but she saw his ears flex as they focused on the sound of her approach. 

“Any new theories?” she asked, standing close beside him with a cup of tea. She thought about his hands as she’d seen them when he’d woken her. She’d wanted to reach out and hold them, and she watched them now as they wrote in fluid elven in the journal. She held her tea tighter though it burned her. 

He leaned forward to look through the skull again. “Always.” 

“It’s a little grim, isn’t it?” 

Solas shrugged. “Do the dead scare you, Hero? The identities of these skulls are the only unsavoury aspect.” 

“Oh,” she replied. “What is their identity?” 

He cupped the skull with one hand, looking through its eyes as casually as though it were a spyglass. “These were the heads of Tranquil.” 

Hero nearly spit out a mouthful of tea. She thought to ask how one finds the skull of a tranquil mage; It’s not something one typically picks up at market. She realised on her own that the skulls had almost certainly been harvested for this exact purpose. “Who would do this?” 

“These are recent additions to the landscape. Perhaps the Templars are seeking some power previously held from them, or some other enemy of the inquisition put them here.” He tied up his journal and faced Hero. The golden evening light played in his eyes such that they glowed. 

She crossed her arms over her chest, discomfort burning there. She did not want to sleep here. “Is it right to be using it?”

“Squeamishness will not bring them back. The only justice we can give the Tranquil is to find discover the purpose and creator of the oculara. And to that end, I will need more time to research these and where they lead us. Perhaps you could have a word with Sascha on their behalf.” He smirked as he made this request. 

“You think I have some influence over him?” She raised her eyebrows. 

“Anyone who has seen the way you interact with him would say that he listens to you.” 

Hero grimaced. She suspected that Sascha was not attracted to women or elves, but Solas spoke of her relation with the Herald with a hint of disgust, an implication of something immoral. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” 

“It’s supposed to be a warning.” 

“I,” she stammered. “Do you think I would abuse my power over the Herald?” 

Solas laughed humourlessly. “Quite the opposite.” He stepped closer to Hero, a small smile on his lips. “I’ve seen you a thousand times in the fade, an elf lifted up by circumstance and luck to serve the most corrupt of mankind. You think some how you will persuade him, change him. You're nothing but a pawn to be sacrificed at the right moment." 

Hero gawked. “I know how to play the game,” she replied dumbly. The sun set below the hills and a cold light descended over the elves. 

“How will you survive with no pieces or moves at your disposal?” 

Hero tried to make a reply, but Solas was standing closer to her than she’d realised, and she couldn’t quite tap into her fury when he smelled like elfroot, when she realised he had freckles across his cheeks. “Have a word with him yourself, hahren,” she snapped.

“Oi! Knife ears!” Sascha called from the fire, waving a wooden spoon. “Supper!” 

Hero departed on bare-feet, and Solas crossed his arms in frustration. 

———

There was another corpse near their campsite. It belonged to some adventurer looking for hidden treasure who’d fallen victim to his own folly and off a hunting stand. When night fell full, Hero made her way to that tree, clambering up it easily as a bear without her boots. She could see the whole valley from her vantage. The fighting had died down, but fires still dotted the country side. Wind blew cold against her cheeks and the talk of the night watch murmured below her. 

This was the hardest time for her, when it was dark and she was tired. Dinan had schooled her all her youth to keep her mind busy in the night. Distraction was her ally. The less she slept, the less Ithaca was likely to notice her talent, as Dinan had described it. Hero did not think of it as a talent. 

But atop the hunting stand there was little set her mind on, and the scouts’ whispers were like that of a hahren, telling stories to the children before sleep, and the fires looked like bright stars on the horizon. Her head lulled against her chest and even aware of it as it began, she fought against her body’s paralysis, willing herself to open her eyes. 

Her body swam around her mind in furs and knives as she always appeared in the fade. A monster with golden eyes. She stepped to the water to better see herself. Beneath the surface was a little girl, flailing against the hands of brother who hated her, hated her crying. There was no mother anymore to care for them. He convinced himself it was a kindness. 

A scream echoed behind her, as the adventurer grasped his broken leg, blood pouring from the wound, a severed artery, death inevitable. Hero approached him, hearing the flails of the little girl still. He would have been a handsome young man, with dark hair and dark eyes, but his face was blotchy and contorted with pain. He looked her in the eyes, called out to her, he’d not been ready for death. She sat silently next to him, as his rage and fear ebbed with the blood from his thigh. It didn’t take long. 

She turned to see a quiet scuffle a little ways off. A young woman was being lead by men in robes. They wore a sigil she did not recognise, because the woman did not recognise it. This was her memory after all. On her forehead was a symbol she could never forget, the sunburst brand. She couldn’t have been more than 16 years, with blond hair braided carelessly. Her robes were torn by branches and greedy hands. When at the precipice, they pushed her to her knees. 

Hero was drawn to the tranquil girl, pulled against her body until they were flush. This is how it was in the fade. She walked with agency but sometimes she was pulled helplessly along like those she witnessed. Her mind was inside the Tranquil’s, and she felt the coldness so deep Hero screamed. There was no dread for the end as a robed arm swung a sword at their necks, but Hero felt all there was on either side of her shattered connection to the fade. Hate, pain, horror, desire, all the girl never had the chance to feel at her death. 

This is how it always was. The fade was haunted with the memories of the dead and Hero saw them, felt them as raw as if she’d swam in their minds. 

She awoke gasping, the sensation of falling sucking her back into her body. A sharp tug on her foot caught her upside-down, and she swung, looking at an inverted Cassandra and Solas in the pre-morning light. 

One of the scouts laughed and broke the silence. Solas lifted a bowl of porridge to his mouth, hiding a smirk, and Cassandra rose to her feet. 

“Are you injured?” she asked, and Hero rubbed her face with her hands, sleep still clinging to her mind. 

“I don’t think so.” She pulled herself up, hanging on to the edge of the stand with her fingers while wiggling her trapped foot. 

Cassandra pushed up on her back, giving Hero the leverage necessary to release herself. She dropped gracefully to the grass alongside the adventurer who’s fate had nearly been her own. Cassandra took hold of her foot, more motherly than Hero had expected. There was some bruising, but the bones were sound.

“I expected worse,” Cassandra said, releasing her. 

Hero stood, making eye contact with Solas, who was smirking still. “I’m made of sturdier stuff.” 

She sat around the fire with them, stretching and massaging her ankle. 

“Do you want me to take a look at it?” Solas offered, but Hero only glared at him in response. 

“What possessed you to fall asleep up there?” Cassandra asked. “Is it a Dalish thing, sleeping in trees?” 

“I didn’t intend to fall asleep,” Hero snapped, reaching to pour herself a cup of tea. 

———

The story of her falling from a tree spread was told and told again as soon as everyone was awake. Varric told it best despite not witnessing it personally. Hero was somewhat grateful for the distraction. She could ignore her nightly visions and Sascha could forget for a while the task the day held for them, namely, reaching Master Dennet. 

With a small elite (Cassandra used this term loosely) team, they could force their way through the templars that were reported near the bridge. Dennet’s farm was not far past that, but they had no intelligence on the state of things there. 

Sascha lead the way with more confidence than the morning before, but less daring than in the afternoon. Cassandra noted it as a positive change. Hero, however, was lacking in some of the stealth and caution she’d exemplified in battle the day before. When they approached the Templar camp, rather than approaching behind Cassandra, she bellowed and stormed the camp faster than the Templars could react. One even dropped his shield in surprise as the tall elf leapt straight into the camp with her blades raised. 

Solas ran forward behind Cassandra, Sascha and Varric at their heels. Smoke from the camp fire cleared and Hero stood surrounded by the bodies of five templars. Varric spoke first. “Well shit.” He said. 

She wiped blood from her face. “There are more up ahead.” She pointed up the hill. 

“And here they come.” Solas readied his staff. 

Nothing cleared her mind like bloodshed. 

———

Several hours later, Sascha stood before Master Dennet, covered in blood and shouting. 

“Listen here, you Dog Lord. I killed your wolves. I fought dozens of templars and mages to get here. The Inquisition needs horses from you and you’re going to give them to us before we complete these meaningless tasks, not after.” 

Cassandra’s face was in her hands. Varric actually turned to face the wall, pretending to examine a bad painting of King Alastair. 

As much as Sascha was red faced and yelling, Dennet was relaxed and collected. “That’s the deal, take it or leave it, Herald. I won’t be sending horses down the road like so many letters to support your Inquisition until you secure my lands.” He sat down at his desk, stretching out a stiff leg. Sascha had a problem with people sitting down before him. “Go fight your little war.” 

Sascha fumed. “This war effects everyone,” he hissed, voice an octave higher than usual. 

Hero stepped forward to soothe Sascha, a behaviour that was already instinctive. “It’s just some wolves and watchtowers. The inquisition will do most of the work.”

He hands balled into fists, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “It’s a matter of principle,” he seethed. 

Dennet laughed deep and loudly, grinning at Hieronymus and Sascha. “Listen to your Halla Rider, Herald. Perhaps elven wisdom is worth something.” 

Sascha turned his smouldering gaze on Hero then, who recoiled. “When I want your counsel, I’ll ask for it,” he spat. 

He stormed out of the house and slammed the door open with enough force rock the whole frame. Cassandra hurried after him, making a noise of disgust and frustration. 

Hero refused to make eye contact with Solas, whose smirk she could feel on the back of her neck. His warning had proven itself not a day after he’d issued it, but she wouldn’t let him see her surprise. She didn’t expect Sascha to fight back against Dennet’s pejoratives; she’d heard much worse from the Herald’s own lips. But for him to turn on her so suddenly? It took only a minutia of external pressure to place her in his way and his hostility to wipe her out. None of that, however, hurt as much as Solas being so prescient. 

She followed Cassandra to their new camp, but stopped short before a notice board. A letter was posted there with a small crude drawing. 

“What’s that, Bear Cub?” Varric asked. 

Hero snatched the plea from the board, handing it off to Varric. “Someone’s lost a Druffalo.” She held her fist up to the horizon. “We have just a few hours before dark, not enough time to get started on the watchtowers or the wolves, but I’m not sitting around camp.” 

Varric frowned. “The Seeker will have work to do, and the Herald will probably call it a waste of time.”

“Whatever,” she shrugged. Solas had joined them and taken the letter from Varric to examine. “It’s just a Druffalo. How much trouble can it be?” 

Varric crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “How much trouble can one Druffalo be? Have you ever met one before?” 

“And there are demons and templars still out there. Who knows what you could run into,” said Solas, and for all his concern he was smug as an Orlesian rug. “You’re starting to sound like the Herald.” 

She snatched the notice from Solas’ hands. “I’ll go by myself, then.” She marched away from the pair and into camp. She splashed through the marshy land, past Cassandra and the Herald where they were planning their next move. Sascha stopped mid sentence to watch her rummage through the requisition officer’s truck, releasing form it a bow, quiver, two short swords, throwing knives, and a shield. Cassandra approached her as she strapped the last scabbard to her hip, looking like a walking armoury. “What are you doing, Scout Lavellan?” she asked with arms crossed.

“I’m going to rescue Druffy,” she said, moving on to the apothecary’s table, filling her pockets with restoratives. 

“Who?” she asked, eyebrows quirked. 

“A druffalo,” replied Solas. “Obviously.” 

Hero payed him no attention, focusing instead on Sascha. “You refuse to help the refugees, at least allow me to assist Master Dennet’s farmers. It will improve his opinion of you, something you desperately need.” 

He grimaced, skin and hair golden in the afternoon light. “I never said I didn’t want to help the refugees. The Inquisition’s resources are stretched thin as it is.” 

“Well, I’m not the inquisition,” she threw up her arms. “So you’ll have to order me not to.” 

They stood, eye to eye for a stretched moment. Hero wanted him to. If he ordered her to sit on her hands in camp, he would have to admit that he didn’t want to help, but also confirm that she was just another agent of the Inquisition. She wanted him to, but he didn’t. 

She snorted and walked away, all eyes following her.

“Wait,” Sascha shouted as she reached the edge of camp. She turned, red in the face and worried. He was reaching for his bow. “I’m coming with you.” 

Cassandra shook her head frantically. “No, no. I cannot approve this.” 

“It’s just a druffalo,” Hero said for the second time. 

“You could be ambushed,” she leaned on the hilt of her sword, looking commanderly. “I won’t risk the Herald for a druffalo.” 

“I’m standing right here,” he muttered, but only so Hero could hear. 

“It’s alright, Seeker,” Varric said, holding Bianca over his shoulder. “They won’t be alone.” 

She glanced at the small group as Solas and Varric joined them, and without any more objections, she made a disgusted noise and turned from them. 

Hero looked at Solas, catching his eye. She expected him to be smug or maybe bitter, but he smirked at her, looking pleased. When she watching him, curious, and when she didn’t look away, he winked at her. She blushed and turned to lead the group toward the ravine. 

———

It seemed Solas was right, once again. The hunt for Druffy was not the cakewalk she’d expected. It was nearly dark when they found the Druffalo fighting for her life against crazed wolves. They’d passed though the ravine, skirted a massive rift, been attacked by bandits, and nearly gotten lost in the slot canyon when Hero heard Druffy’s howls. Sascha was pulling arrows from one of the wolf corpses while Solas skinned another. Varric was eyeing the bleeding druffalo from a distance. 

“Hey there,” Hero muttered, bloodstained but unarmed. “You’re a big girl, Druffy. You’re a tough girl.” 

She was indeed. Hero was tall for an elf, and she didn’t stand even as tall as the beast’s shoulder. The entire party could ride her without Solas slipping off the back. 

There was rage and pain in her small dark eyes, shrouded by fur. Hero could feel it. She reached toward Druffy and felt the sharpness of her anxiety. Blood ran down her throat from where the wolves jaws had grabbed ahold of her. She heaved, shaking her head and stamping her feet. 

Hero did not back off. She hummed low, a tune Solas had never heard in the world or the fade. Druffy listened too, raising her head and stepping forward to meet Hero’s hand with her snout. The men watched as she ran her hand over the animal’s snout, her forehead plate, her neck, humming all the while. She lead Druffy to the others, who stood as transfixed as the druffalo by Hieronymus’ humming. 

Sascha pet Druffy’s snout. “Er, I guess we should get her back home now.” 

Everyone nodded, but no one moved to leave. 

“How did you do that,” Solas asked, his mind clear, his body feeling heavy. He wanted to examine the sensation, but felt the will to do so flowing away through his fingers and toes. 

Hero shrugged, then cleared her throat. The trance broke. “Lead on, Herald Eternal,” she muttered, and Sascha nodded. 

It was perhaps the lingering effects of Hero’s humming that made them forget about the rift, until a wraith slammed into her, knocking her into the muddy water. It screamed, turning on the others, only to receive a volley of arrows and burst into ectoplasm. Hero picked herself up, soaking but uninjured. The party prepared themselves for battle demons poured from the hole in the universe. 

“Oh, shit,” Hero growled. The closest she’d been to a rift thus far was looking at the Breach from Haven. She’d prepared herself for the worst, but demons of Rage, Despair, and every kind of Horror surrounded them from high on the canyon walls. 

Varric cocked Bianca loudly. “Where’s the Seeker when we need her?” 

Hero’s skin tingled as Solas’ shield encircled them. Then chaos erupted. 

They backed close to each other, holding off the first wave of demons. Hero sunk a blade into the face of a rage demon, and received burns to her arms before Solas could cast ice around it. She deflected a blast of spirit energy away from Sascha with her shield, and Varric blew a group of shades into ectoplasm with a storm of bolts. Hero was feeling confident, until the despair demon shot her in the back with icy tendrils of energy. She knelt in the water as her energy drained, turning with her shield just before losing consciousness. When it turned on the Herald, she stood, blocking the attack. He shot arrows at the Despair demon, but either they weren’t meeting their mark or weren’t hurting it, because the force of despair only grew greater. Her arms were numb, and her legs were weakening from the strain. She glanced at Solas. He was swinging his staff, throwing fire and ice and everything in between at the demons around them. He looked at her too, eyes clear and vicious, just as a Horror burst from the ground beneath him, throwing him against the rocks. 

Hero shouted, she didn’t know what. Maybe his name, maybe the name of one of the creators. The Horror raised a taloned fist to strike and Solas could only watch as it fell on him. 

A roar and a flash of brown erupted between them. The demon flew across the ravine, dissolving back into the rift. Solas was frozen in shock, soaking wet and covered in mud, but unharmed. Duffy reared up in front of him like a battle steed. 

The Despair demon threw a blast of ice at Hero, knocking shield from her hand, and throwing her and Sascha to the ground. Varric fired at it, but it leapt at them, unimpressed by his bolts. From her place lying in the mud, Hero watched the demon approach Sascha. He was crawling away, his bow shattered next to him. Druffy roared again, storming away from Solas and butting the demon in the chest with her head plate. It burst on impact. She galloped in circles around the team who lay stunned in the mud. One by one she picked off any demon that strayed too close to her saviours. When the last demon fell to her horns and hooves, the rift flexed and Solas shouted over the din. “Close it, Herald!” 

Sascha lifted his left hand, which glowed and pulsed in time with the rift. A burst of light, and a boom like thunder, and the rift was gone. 

The ravine was silent as darkness fell, except for their heavy breathing and the splashing of Druffy’s feet as she approached. She went to the Herald, nudging him with her snout. His green eyes were wide with fear, but he patted her and muttered, “Hey there. You’re a big girl, Druffy.” 

———

Cassandra was understandably furious when they returned, bruised and muddy with a Druffalo in toe. They returned her to her pen, but not before they all gave their thanks and bid farewell to their steadfast friend. Even Varric rested his forehead against Druffy’s shoulder and told her that she would make it into his next book. 

Most of the party changed into dry clothes and went straight to their tents, but Hero stayed up by the fire. Her hands were still stinging and cold from the Despair Demon’s icy breath. 

Her folly had nearly killed them. She’d lost herself in spite and secrets. She blamed her sleep as usual, but there was something else, some nagging from her dreams that pushed her closer to the edge of destruction. It would hurt her again, and it would endanger the others if she didn’t face it. She had questions and there was an apostate who thought he knew all the answers. 

Solas had not yet retired for the night. The stars were out, and there was no sound but the murmur of scouts and druffalo in the camp. She held her tea close to her chest, something to calm her but also chase sleep from her mind. She watch his wandering through camp, and ultimately caught his eye. It took only an anxious look to bring him to her side. He sat with her on the campfire rug, watching the flames and embers. He looked tired, but not afraid as the Herald was. His eyes were bright in the fire light. 

“It could have been worse,” he said. His voice was quiet like the flames. 

Hero dropped her face into her hands. “No one died. Unfortunately that isn’t my basis for success.” 

He laughed, and she turned to him, one leg folded under her. His lips were pulled into a grin that spread to his eyes. 

“Do you think Cassandra will ban me from joining quests?” she asked, scratching an ear to distract herself from a gentle blush rising in her cheeks. 

“Is that really what’s worrying you, da’len? Two days ago you didn’t want to come to the Hinterlands at all.” 

He was right, but she wouldn’t say so. The question burned in her chest, and there was still no way to ask without revealing too much. Solas was rude. He was an unknown. He’d arrived at Haven with a story so vague, and even Cassandra was not sure with how much to trust him. He knew so much and she knew he felt her wavering. He didn’t ask, but waited, and Hero listened to a pull inside her. 

“When you slept at Haven,” she began, “did the spirits in the fade know what happened there? Did they reenact it for you?” 

He waited to answer her as a scout passed by them. “No. The friendly spirits I would have consulted were driven from Haven by the breach. The only spirits there were more base entities, pulled from their home in the fade and into Thedas, becoming demons.” He looked at his hands, clasped by his knee. “If I’d been brave enough to ask they would have no answers for me.” 

“That isn’t cowardice. ‘Caution is the better part of valour’, as I so clearly demonstrated today.” She sipped her tea and prepared herself. “Then, there was nothing else in the fade you could ask for answers?” 

He tilted his head down, watching her from under long lashes. “You’ve asked that of me twice now,” he said in low and lilted tones. 

“I,” she started, but her voice caught in her throat. “I slept in Haven. I saw more than spirits there.” She spoke quickly, not wanting to linger on the words. “I saw the deaths of thousands on that mountain, then I watched them flayed by fire and the fade. I spoke to them before the end. They had not much to say. It’s understandable considering, but then I saw my brother and my sister and, Of course I knew, but now I know for sure.” She stopped her rambling. 

Solas listened, his eyes wide and filled with some unknown emotion. He had a question, and she answered before he could voice it. 

“Always. Since I can remember.” 

He steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. “Before I give you my thoughts, you will forgive me for asking this. Did you see who caused the explosion at the Conclave?” 

She breathed and bent the truth. “Whoever cause the explosion either wasn’t animal or didn’t die.” 

Solas nodded. “I expect it is the latter.” He straightened up and Hero realised that their heads had been bowed together, his face very close to hers. “I suspected something of you. You have a rare and marvellous spirit, but I never imagined you possessed such a gift. And for one who is not a mage,” he paused, seeing Hero’s grimace. “What?” 

She rearranged her face into a sardonic mask. “You almost had me charmed before you ruined it. Go back to my rare and marvellous spirit.” 

“You do not like being compared to a mage?” he queried. 

“I do not like to be reminded that I am not a mage.” She rubbed her neck, and Solas saw thin bright scars running over her skin, like roots stemming from her spine. “I was once reminded often.” 

His hand twitched, a wild urge to touch her seized him. He stood suddenly. “I should sleep. We will have a lot of work in the morning.” 

She nodded. 

“You should rest, too,” he added. 

Hero winked at him. “I don’t find much rest in the fade.” She pushed him playfully. “Sleep well, apostate.” 

His skin burned where she’d touched him. He turned to leave, but Hero stammered quietly, “Will you…” she began. 

He bowed his head to her. “Of course. I will tell no one. Thank you for trusting me.” 

Hieronymus finished her cup of tea and poured herself another. She hoped her trust was not misplaced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had my second poem accepted by a literary magazine, and honestly finishing and posting this chapter was a way bigger thrill. Thank you all so much for reading and for all your support.


	6. A History

Chapter 5. A History 

“Well,” Hero said to Haven, which was louder and more crowded than when she’d left it two weeks before, “that was tedious.” 

She dumped her rucksack in her tent which was double occupied in her absence. She just nodded to the scout who was smoking with his feet on her cot. 

The Herald received word from Mother Giselle with the names of individuals in the Chantry who would be willing to meet with him, and so he and Cassandra left for Val Royeaux immediately from the Hinterlands, leaving the others to return to Haven with messages and supplies. Hero was not used to being a messenger or a delivery elf. Indeed, her work as a bard sometimes required the conveyance of information or items, but generally this included some element of espionage. There was nothing she was doing for the Herald that a trained nug couldn’t do. 

She wove through the crowds of solders and scouts, a sack slung over her shoulder. She felt eyes on her, something she was used to. They were the eyes of civilians but also of Leliana’s agents. News of some of their adventures must have reached the spymaster. 

The chantry was quiet compared to the rest of Haven, filled with the murmurs of sisters and chanters. She knocked on the ambassador’s door, and a small voice bid her enter. 

She opened the door but the desk was empty. She looked about for Josephine, but the room seemed empty. 

“Most people just come in,” said the same small voice. A young mage was standing in the corner by a table covered in artefacts and remnants. She was lithe and beautiful, with brilliant red hair. Hero felt a pang in her chest from the sight of her; in the dim light she could have mistaken her for her sister. 

“Er,” she started, shaking the uncomfortable association from her mind, “Cassandra sent me with some specimens to give to Josephine, for research.” 

The mage patted the table, giving a sly smile. “You can just set them here.”

Hero quirked an eyebrow at her. 

“I’m the researcher,” she said. Her voice was light and lilting, and Hero felt her heart twist. “The name’s Minaeve.” 

She set the sack on the table and Minaeve began rummaging through the demon bits, pulling out claws and scales.

“Are you Dalish?” Hero heard herself say, and immediately hid her face in her hand. 

“We’ll that’s an odd question. People don’t usually make that connection as I don’t have vallaslin.” She leaned back against the stone wall behind her. “I remember when you got here. You were brought in bound and blindfolded and you left a free elf. And they say you tried to shoot a scout.” 

Hero crossed her arms defensively. “I had no intention to shoot her.”

“You must be rather clever,” Minaeve interrupted, “but clever will get you killed. That’s one of the first things you learn in the Circle. Well then,” she sighed, “you must have been dalish too. You’ve got the accent alright, though you sound a little stilted with that Orlesian nobility over top of it.” 

“Hey now,” Hero began, her temper flaring under Minaeve’s criticisms, “I had to fight to make my way in the world. I was ten when I was kicked out of my clan.” 

“And I was six,” Minaeve shouted back. 

The elves stared each other down for a long moment before a giggle rose in their throats. They clasped hands. 

“It’s good to meet you, Minaeve. I’m Hieronymus. Would you like some tea?”

‘Perhaps this is what I need,’ Hero thought. She came to Haven looking for her kin and found nothing but angry shems. Solas could have been a friend, but he hated the Dalish with more vitriol than any human she knew. He’d called them children the way dalish would speak of elves living in alienages. She couldn’t fathom that he knew so much more than the Keepers of her people, even if he walked the fade every night. But Minaeve understood the way Hero did. When they disagreed, Hero understood why. The circle had been Minaeve’s family, and Hero never had another family, only shems who’d pitied her of used her or fought her. Hero forgave the Dalish and Minaeve never could, but for an hour before Josephine returned to her office, they were at peace with each other. 

“Scout Lavellan?” Josephine said in a startled tone, her board in hand. “Leliana has been looking for you.” 

Hero stood and bowed to the Ambassador. “And here I thought the spymaster saw all.” She took Minaeve’s hand in hers briefly. “Dareth shiral, lethalan.” 

Leliana beckoned Hero immediately into her tent when she left the chantry. 

“Good morning, Nightingale,” she said, giving Leliana her best bard’s smile.

She sat behind her desk but did not invite Hero to sit also. “I have some questions regrading your behaviour.” 

Hero sighed. “Right to it, then. What can I do for you?” 

“The reports I received from Cassandra were,” she paused, thinking, “impressive and disturbing. The incident with the druffalo.” 

“I’m feeling misrepresented,” Hero interrupted, shifting her weight. “Did she also tell you about the bears?”

“I said impressive, didn’t I?” Leliana stood, leaning on her desk. There was danger in her blue eyes. “Your skill is not in question. I did as you said; I checked up on your references in Orlais. Most of your clients described you as efficient, creative. Others called you a liability, and that your services had… unexpected costs. Grand Duke Gaspard was particularly critical of your time serving him.” 

“Ah, yes, give my best to the Duke,” Hero spat, a wicked sneer creeping onto her face. “The Inquisition should invite him to Haven to polish my knob.” 

“The Inquisition cannot afford mixed and unknown motives in its agents, so I’m asking on behalf of the Herald and the Inquisition where your loyalties lie.” 

Hero’s jaw dropped. “My loyalties.” Silence rang between them. “My loyalty is in the same place as yours, Nightingale,” she snapped. “With the dead. I can’t lie to you; I have no faith in the Chantry, and I don’t believe Sascha is anything more than a prick noble who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But you lost the Divine, and I lost my family, and isn’t that why we’re here, because we’re missing parts of ourselves? Cassandra is building an Inquisition out of her grief. You’ll fight to the ends of Thedas to discover the enemy. I’m just along for the ride.” 

Leliana’s lips pinched pinched into a scowl. “The Inquisition is not a mechanism for revenge, only the truth.” 

Hero scoffed. 

“Commander Cullen spoke with me about his interaction with you before you left for the Hinterlands.”

“Indeed,” she growled.

“And during my inquiries, I discovered a gap in your resume. What were you doing in Kirkwall in 9:33?”

“I don’t know to what you are referring.”

Leliana slammed her hand on her desk in a show of uncharacteristic anger. “You said yourself that you cannot lie to me.” 

Hero smirked at the spymaster. “I can certainly try.” 

“I would not recommend it,” she said dangerously.

Hero sighed. 

———

“What do you want to know?” Varric asked, sitting in the Chantry. 

The Herald and Cassandra were a day returned from Val Royeaux, and Sascha was stagnating. The templars openly threatened the Inquisition, and the mages politely invited him to make an accord. The choice seemed obvious to Solas, but the Herald’s mind worked in mysterious ways. 

Now he sat with Varric in the Chantry, eyeing one of the Inquisition’s newest recruits, Vivienne DeFer, Enchanter to the Imperial Court of Orlais, and appearing to talk idly. 

“You knew her,” he started, leaning his head against the stone wall behind him, “and appear to know a lot about her for someone who knew her so briefly so long ago.” 

Varric grinned at Solas, a slyness in his eyes. “You’re awfully curious about our Bearcub.” 

“I wouldn’t ask you to share anything indiscreet.” He tried not to roll his eyes at the look Varric was giving him. 

“Nothing about pirates, then?” 

Solas refused to dignify that question with a response. “She is a mystery and I’m curious, yes.” 

He’d tried during their travels in the Hinterlands to ask her about her experiences in the fade, but Hieronymus was frustratingly cagey about her past and her internal life. Most of what he knew of her he’d pieced together from what she’d said to others, and what they said of her. Varric and Josephine were the only members of the Inquisition who had any history with her. 

“As you said, it was a long time ago, and only for a brief time. Most of what I know was told to me after Hawk and I returned from the deep roads. I can’t attest to the accuracy of my information.” 

Solas smirked. “Your stories are always loose on detail and sharp with atmosphere, Master Tethras.” 

Varric snorted. “I’ll sign your copy of my book, Chuckles.” 

“I borrowed it from the library.” 

Varric laughed properly, and Madam DeFer threw the pair a scowl.

“I trust your version of events well enough,” Solas said, waving at the Enchanter. 

“Well then.” Varric cracked his knuckles. “I’d only known Hawk for about a year, and we were nearly ready to go to the deep roads when she first appeared. I’d heard rumours about a bard in Kirkwall. They’re more of an Orlesian tradition, but it wasn’t uncommon to hear of some noble or another hiring one to work out a problem or entertain at a particularly important party. But there was never more than one at a time in Kirkwall, so I never caught her name. She was just called her the bard. 

“I saw her once in Hightown. It’s a rare sight, an educated elf, well dressed.” Varric blushed, and shrugged at Solas, who gestured for Varric to continue. “Her business in Kirkwall wasn’t Hightown business. She wasn’t hired by any nobles, and as many do, she found her way to Hawk eventually. She was young then, handsome and charming as she is now, and just as stubborn. Hawks wanted our help brainstorming her problem, and it took her long enough to open up to us. She never even gave us her real name. She went by Io’len, which she said was a childhood nickname.” 

“Of course,” Solas said, smiling a little. “Bearcub.” 

“Daisy translated it for us. You’ll find this part interesting, Chuckles. The reason she gave us her childhood nickname, is because she was looking for someone from her past in Kirkwall, her sister. Doesn’t that sound familiar?” 

Solas steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lip. “Go on.” 

“She explained that her clan escaped the blight in Ferelden, but settled too near to Kirkwall. The templars were frustrated already by the influx of refugees that they saw new Dalish in the area as an encouragement to free mages. They went to raid the clan, but found just one fiery pissed-off elf-mage. She gave the rest of the clan time to escape, then was captured and forced into the circle. Daisy confirmed that part of the story. She was first of clan Sabrae, and had heard that Lavellan lost its first to the Circle. Lavellan moved further north, away from shemlin and leaving their scape-ram to rot in Kirkwall. 

“Which brings us to Bearcub. She was an outcast from her clan, living in Orlais and training to be a bard. She told us herself that she had little real work under her belt, but that she was talented and would trade her services for our assistance.”

“Did Hawk have much experience with prison break?” Solas asked. 

“You’d be surprised. But Hawk always knows someone, and there was an apostate in Kirkwall with more his fair share of experience breaking out of circles.”

The door to the war counsel banged open, and Solas and Varric both jumped. The advisors filed out, following a giddy looking Herald. He made a bee line for Solas and Varric. He stood iconically before them, hands on his hips. 

“How’s it going, kid?” 

“Rotten,” he replied with a grin spread from ear to ear. Solas was beginning to recognise patterns of mania and depression in Sascha. He felt for him, and believed his mood was not nearly as dangerous as his ignorance. Hieronymus’ faith was not as misplaced as he’d believed. 

“No luck planing the Inquisition’s next move?” Solas asked. 

“Not unless you think we can close the breach without templars or mages?” 

Solas shook his head. “Join us. Varric is telling an interesting story.” 

Varric raised an eyebrow to Solas, but he shrugged. What could be the harm, he thought, catching Leliana’s eye where she stood huddled with the other advisors. Sascha sat on the floor like a child listening to their father’s war stories. 

“This is where the details become secondhand. I left with Hawke, Fenris, and Merrill for the deep roads, and by the time we returned, Bearcub was long gone.” 

Sascha raised a hand to silence Varric. “Wait, Hero was in Kirkwall?” 

Varric slapped his hand away. “All will be revealed if you listen, Herald. You came into the story half way through and I’m not going to repeat myself.” 

“This is why I don’t read your books,” Sascha said with a sneer. 

“It took nearly two months for Anders and Bearcub to develop a plan for breaking her sister out of the Circle. She spent some of that time cleaning up Kirkwall, resolving petty feuds, killing folks who needed killing, and keeping Carver out of trouble. The rest of her time was spent in the Hanged Man, playing cards with Carver and Isabella.” He paused for effect. “The pirate.” 

“Oh, a pirate,” Sascha repeated with sarcasm and a roll of his eyes. 

Varric turned to him with his elbows on his knees. Solas got the impression that Varric wanted to tell this part of Hero’s story, despite Solas’ instance that he didn’t want to hear it. “Varric,” he muttered, but the dwarf ignored him. 

“Isabella could always be found at the Hanged Man where the drinks were cheep and the company was just as unsavoury. Thieving was her fist love, and seduction was her second. She had no shortage of potential lovers in Kirkwall, but she had a particular love for young, idealistic elves. With the stress of her mission, the pain of her sister’s imprisonment, no one could blame Hero for finding comfort in the arms of a beautiful woman. So the day Anders and Bearcub sprung their trap in the Gallows, she emerged not in her own room in the Hanged Man, but in Isabella’s. 

“Their mission failed on the first attempt. She returned, bruised but more determined. The templars had nearly killed her and her sister. Time was of the essence, as their was no guarantee that the sister would not be made tranquil after this offence, never mind that she had no prior knowledge of the escape attempt. It took a week for them to reset the trap, trick some guards to abandon their posts, destroy the mage phylacteries, and smuggle the sister into the tunnels. She didn’t say goodbye to anyone but Anders.”

Varric turned to Solas, stretching is arms over his head, satisfied with his story. “Did I answer all your questions, Chuckles?”

“Not remotely,” he grumbled. 

But Sascha was grinning. “So our Hero prefers the company of ladies. That explains why she is curiously immune to my charms.” 

“Everyone is immune to you charms,” Varric replied. “And I don’t know about you, but I gather that she has no preference. You’ve seen the way she looks at Chuckles sometimes.” 

Solas felt heat rise in his cheeks. “You mean like she’s planning my murder?” 

Sascha scoffed, and Solas cast a disgusted look at him. “Everyone has a preference. She’s just pretending to worm her way into your good graces. I’ve never known a person of no preference to be capable of love. And what of this sister, what right had she to remove her from the Circle? She’d lived and learned magic from savages. Circle teaching were a blessing to her.”

Solas felt a fire blaze in his chest and his eyes. All the sympathy he’d felt for Sascha flowed right out of him. “What do you know of the Circle?” he growled. 

“My brother Stanis was a Senior Enchanter in Ostwick. My parents didn’t like it but I used to visit him. The Circle was so orderly, quiet. Mages worked in peace and safety, away from the temptation of demon possession.”

“Away from the temptation of possession? How do you explain possessions that occurred in the circle?” 

“Oh, well. Those were taken care of.”

“How?” Solas snapped. “How exactly were they taken care of?”

“I expect they were punished.” 

“Incorrect, Herald.”

“Watch it, Apostate,” Sascha spat. He took to his feet. “So Hero is a criminal and a traitor. I’m sure Leliana will find this information most interesting.”

Solas balled his hands into fists, feeling ice creeping along his skin. He and Varric listened as Sascha approached Leliana, who was speaking with Josephine. 

He whispered to them, something Solas could not hear, but he watched as Leliana frowned at the Herald, concern written across her face. When he finished speaking his accusations, Leliana glanced first at Josephine, then at Solas. 

“Thank you for your confidence, Travelyan, but nothing you’ve said is news to me. I spoke with Scout Lavellan and she told me of her time in Kirkwall herself.” She linked arms with Josephine and bid the Herald good day. He stood in the centre of the chantry, watching the ladies leave, confusion so clearly written on his face. Solas could hear Vivienne clicking her tongue in disapproval. 

———

The sword Hero held was heavier than the void. She held it steady, and watched her opponent, waiting for her to make the first move. Cassandra’s foot shifted, and Hero spun, swinging her sword hard and dodging the Seeker’s blow. 

Cassandra parried, the sword from swung Hero’s grasp, and Cass knocked her flat to the ground. 

“Better, but your grip needs work.” She held out a hand for Hero, lifting her to her feet. 

They were training separately from the troops on the other side of a row of tents. It was an unseasonably hot day. Most of the recruits were shirtless, so the women were also. Sweat rolled down Hero’s back, and from under her simple breast-band. Cassandra was glistening, but her breathing was not as heavy as Hero’s. 

“I told you I’m not a warrior,” she said for the hundredth time. She picked her sword from the snow, feeling weary. 

Cassandra raised her weapon. “You’re stronger than you look. With some discipline you could be very dangerous.” 

Block, parry, and Hero took a hit with Cassandra’s blunted blade to the shoulder. She fell to a knee, panting. “I’m plenty dangerous with a knife.”

She rose to her feet, ready to call quits when Sascha approached from Haven. He glared at the both of them. Cassandra ignored him, raising her sword again, but Hero waited. 

His mood swings had been more dramatic and unpredictable since he’d returned from Orlais. Hero believed he was finally feeling the scope of the Inquisitions task. It was harder to ignore in Haven when the Breach loomed massive overhead. 

Understanding his pain did little to endear the Herald to Hero when his ire was directed at her. 

“What happened to you?” he scoffed, his eyes raking over her body. 

A flush burned her cheeks. She tightened her grip on her sword. “Cassandra’s been teaching me the ways of the long sword.”

“I meant to your skin.” He pointed at her bare flesh, and Hero grimaced. 

Cassandra, Cullen, and even Solas had been tactful enough to ignore the obvious as she’d spared in the open. She wasn’t embarrassed by naked skin; the dalish didn’t teach such shem nonsense. Nor was she ashamed of her affliction, but she couldn’t forget it. 

A web of scars traversed her skin. Like roots of a terrible tree that were sometimes pink, sometimes shining white, nearly all her body was covered except her face. In court she’d worn severe necklines, and even there, her scars made her intriguing. She invented wild tales of sea monsters or sorcerers to explain her injury. 

She had no interest in impressing Sascha. She lifted her sword. “It was a freak childhood accident.” She swung her sword, and Cassandra blocked it easily. “Picnic, lightning.” 

“Maker’s breath,” Cassandra muttered, sword by her side. 

Sascha scoffed. “Well, you’d better keep it covered up. You’re much prettier with your clothes on.” 

Hero turned on him, and pointed her sword at his chest. “You’re much prettier with your mouth shut. Maybe you’d like a go with Cassandra. She’d make you as pretty as me.” 

Cassandra shifted her weight nervously, but Sascha just grimaced and turned tail. Hero’s grip on her sword relaxed.

She felt eyes on her, and looked about. Solas passed close by, dodging Sascha who snapped at him. He smirked briefly at Hero, who kept her expression steady. 

She looked around again, and found Commander Cullen watching her from where he was instructing the troops. She held his gaze, fire and a threat burning in her eyes. He looked away, shouting orders at his solders. Leliana had ordered her to stay away from him. She’d never been particularly good at following orders. 

“I think I’m finished, Cass,” she muttered, handing her sword back to the Seeker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit of a filler. There was so much dialogue I nearly wore out my quote key. Things will pick up a bit in the next chapter, I think. Thank you all so much for your kind words.
> 
> If Billy Collins can write a book called "Picnic, Lightning," then I'm not gonna feel to buttered about quoting and attributing it to Nabokov.


	7. Tavern at the End of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW: beware, certain fantasies and self touching lay beyond these borders

Chapter 6: Tavern at the End of the World 

The rift hummed, filling the chantry with fade-waves until it burst. Sascha's hand shook as the magic that commanded the rifts slept again beneath his skin. 

Hero's arms burned from exertion as Cassandra helped her to her feet. The stream of demons from the rift seemed endless. One moment, time sped forward, and they seemed to nearly have defeated them all, then like she was trying to swim through sand, she fought against tides of magic and the demons would overwhelm them again. Sera was knocked clean out by a horror, and Solas was coaxing her back to consciousness against the dais. 

After more than a week in Haven, Sascha had given in to his advisors insistences that he meet with the mages in Redcliffe. They stopped along the way to recruit a Warden named Blackwall, but it seemed that they were too late and no longer welcome allies to the mages. 

"Alexius claimed the mage rebels out from under you," Dorian warned Sascha, his grey eyes dark in the half-light, "as if by magic, yes?" 

The mage from Tavinter (no one would again make the mistake again of calling him a Magister), continued to explain this time magic. Sera ignored him wilfully, muttering about magic being nonsense, but the rest listened: Cassandra with caution, Solas with interest, Hero with dread, and Sascha with something that could not be named, but concerned Hero almost as much as time magic. 

"This is rather a lot of work on Alexius' part to get to me. Should I be flattered?" Sascha said, his eyes lingering on Dorian. 

"I think it would take more than impossible feats of magic to flatter you, Lord Trevelyan." 

Hero tried to catch Dorian's eye, perhaps to warn him, or to get a read on him. She caught Solas' instead, and their fears passed silently between them. There would be no getting through to shems flirting with each other, so wrapped up in their own egos to see the obvious dangers. 

She caught up with Sascha outside of the Chantry. He was huddled close to Cassandra, discussing the Inquisition's plan. 

"Herald, can I have a moment of your time?" 

Sascha and Hero watched as Solas tried to offer Sera support as she hobbled down the stairs and she pushed him away. 

"Make it quick," he snapped at Hero. "I'm leaving directly for Val Royeaux." 

Hero lead him away from the others, but she felt their eyes watching her. "I will not be traveling with you, then?" 

"I don't see how you could be of assistance," he grumbled. 

She tightened her jaw and narrowed her eyes. "You realise I'm a bard. If you need to convince the powers that be to support the Inquisition, my skills are at your disposal.”

"I'll keep that in mind." 

Whatever Solas said, she and the Herald had never been friendly. He may have admired her, looked at her as his pet elf assassin. Since they journeyed to the Hinterlands, he'd grown more cold and distant from her by the day. As Sascha's confidence grew, her suggestions were dismissed more quickly, her counsel went unconsidered. This behavior was not just displayed toward her, but to all Sascha's companions. Solas experienced nearly the same level of distain, but he said himself that the Herald had never liked him. The advisors grew restless and once again Sascha was loosing time. 

In the face of such obvious danger, she would risk what place she had in the Inquisition to warn Sascha. 

"Are you going to side with the mages?" 

He laughed at her. "Are you jealous, Hero? Yes, I'm going to save the mages from Alexius. How you could not want the same is beyond me. Tavinter will use them, and with Dorian at our side we can bring down the Venatori before they strike.”

"Strike again," she corrected with dark eyes narrowed. "If the Venatori are the ultimate villain here then they were behind the explosion at Haven as well. But we found no evidence of their presence at the Conclave. If an army, or even a small force of Tavinter extremists were hiding out in Ferelden before now, wouldn't Nightingale have had some word?" 

"What are you suggesting?" he growled. 

"It's too simple, Sascha." She stepped closer to him, looking for any fear or recognition of danger in his eyes. She couldn't tell him the truth. He'd spared her once from the prisons at Haven, but if she revealed that she knew more than she'd let on about the events at Haven, that there was a monster, red and full of the blight at the heart of this, and above him, perhaps a myth, she would never see the light of day, only the cold walls of a dungeon. Yet in the beating heart of her bled out a fear and the stories of her father and her people. May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.

"Why shouldn't it be simple," he grinned. "The Inquisition's purpose is holy, why shouldn't we triumph with such ease." 

"Because nothing is simple." Behind the Herald, Solas stepped closer to the pair under the pretence of examining a stalk of elfroot. She lowered her voice. "Tavinter is the antithesis of the Chantry, the favourite enemy of the South. For nearly a thousand years since the death of Andraste they've been villainized, and often rightly so. But how do you think magister would have access to the powerful magics that created the breach? And how would we have not detected them developing those magics when even Alexius' experiments with time, which are so small by comparison, are tearing the world apart?" 

"Do you have a point?" Sascha snapped.   
She hissed low under her breath, "Do not launch a full frontal attack on a hostile foreign power when you don't even know what weapons they have, as I suspect is your plan. Go to the Templars. Hunt down every lead before you put your life on the line." 

He scoffed and stalked away from her. 

"I do not distrust Dorian Parvus, but he created more questions than he answered," She begged, following him past Solas and Cassandra. "The purpose of the Inquisition is to find the truth, even and especially when it is inconvenient or dangerous." 

He mounted his horse, sneering down at the elf. "The purpose of my inquisition is to end this war before it starts." 

"Sascha, please," she begged. 

"And you need not worry about me putting my life on the line. You'll be between me and danger at Redcliffe when we return." And with that note, that threat, Hero thought, the Herald left them for Val Royeaux with the orders to wait for him in Haven. 

———

Over the next week of the Herald's absence, tensions and restlessness began to build in Haven, and there was no word yet from Sascha about his return. So they waited, bored, and boredom breeds discontent. 

And when bored, Hero followed the her feet to where all roads lead: the tavern at the end of the world.

It wasn't really the end of the world, she thought, as Sascha would return and close the breach, but it had that feel, the giddy buzzing of life that could wait no longer, fights breaking out in the yard. Void, it was mid-day and most of the patrons were stumbling round the tavern, groping at the minstrels body like she was their flagon. Hero took the improper hand of one of these drunks and sprained his wrist with a twist of hers. He wailed and fell to his knees, and with a grin Hero turned at the sound of her name. 

Sera was waving her over to a table where she sat with Blackwall and Solas. The men were locked in a game of wicked grace, and Hero slid into the bench next to Solas, who was winning. He laid down his cards and the Warden groaned. 

"I get the feeling I'm going to regret teaching you this game," he moaned. 

Sera laughed. "Don't cry now over spilled coin, yeah. Besides, I've not heard elfy speak so many proper sentences together." 

"Careful, Sera," Solas crooned, "I did hear you say you'd play the winner." He turned to Hero, throwing her a wink. 

She reached for a pint ale, downing it as quickly as she could without spilling it all over her coat. 

"Are you trying to drown yourself?" Blackwall gave her a quizzical look. 

"Yes. I lost badly last time I played wicked grace, and I haven't quite recovered." 

"When was that?" he asked, passing her another pint. 

She shrugged. "8 years ago." 

Solas smirked and shuffled the cards. 

Hero watched him. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and she could see the muscles in his arms as he manipulated the cards. The firelight reflected small scars on his hands, magic burns she guessed. His hands were better suited to a scholar than a hedge mage; they were soft, precise, made for turning pages, not breaking branches. 

He turned to her, holding out the cards. "Do you want to play?" 

She cleared her throat. "I'd rather just watch," she said, gesturing to Sera and Blackwall, who were locked in an arm-wrestle. 

After a long moment, in which it was obvious that Blackwall was holding back, letting Sera push his hand around, he slammed hers down on the table. Their ale's bounced, and a sleeping patron at the other end of the table sat upright, bleary and mumbling. 

Sera growled, rubbing her knuckles. "This is boring." 

"It's not as much fun when you're losing, is it?" Solas said with a smirk.

Sera blew a raspberry at him, and he grimaced. 

"Well maybe it's time for you to share in the losing fun," she said, sitting up straight and elbowing Blackwall in the ribs. "What do you think, Blackwall. Who would win in a fight?" 

Hero looked wearily at Sera. 

"Who?" he asked.

"Between our elfy friends." 

Hero sized up Solas. He wasn't wearing his overcoat, and she could see that he was stronger than she'd expected. He was bigger than her, but not my much, and she'd fought much bigger. 

He seemed to be doing the same when Blackwall spoke. "There's no way. Solas has a shrewd look in his eye and a long reach. I learned a long time ago not to underestimate a mage, even without their magic.”

"But you've not seen Hero in her element," Sera replied. 

Hero shook her head. "The battle field is far from 'my element.'" But internally she thought that the fighting ring was much closer to it. 

"Listen," Sera started up again, "a mages mind isn't gonna be much good to him when his brains are bouncing around his skull. And I could probably count on my left foot the number of fights he's been in." 

Solas frowned, and opened his mouth like he was about to ask a question. 

"I've got six toes on my left foot," Sera said premeditatively. 

Blackwall was still shaking his head. "I'll bet everything I've got left after Solas robbed me blind that Hero will yield first.”

"You're on!" Sera yelled, clapping Blackwall on the back. "We should probably do this outside. Cass won't thank us for busted tables." 

"Hold up." Hero turned as everyone, even Solas, got up and headed for the door. "You're just going along with this?" 

He grinned, showing sharp white canines. "Are you afraid?”

"I, no." She paused, feeling an echo in his words of what she'd said to him before. "But I'm not going to be provoked into fighting you." She stood anyway and followed them out. 

Varric leapt from a chair in the corner where he'd been surreptitiously listening. "Courage, Bearcub." Then he shouted to Sera, "I'll put 3 gold on the Bard." 

They moved outside Haven where the ground was clear and soft where the soldiers train. A small crowd formed, and while bets were being settled, Solas stripped to his vest. Gods, he was strong. Hero took off her coat and shirt. She was most comfortable fighting in her breast-band that was more of a vest, covering her chest from her collar bone to her waist. It was secure, and in it she looked to hardly have breasts at all. 

She was sitting on the ground, taking off her boots when Solas approached her. He passed her a roll of cotton. His knuckles were wrapped. Maybe he did know what he was doing. 

"I guess I don't want to cut up your pretty face," Hero clipped with a grin. 

Solas rolled his eyes. 

Cullen, Cassandra, and Vivienne were standing on Solas' side of the ring of spectators, huddled together and giving him advice. Hero heard Solas scoff at Madame de Fer and say he would not be using magic. 

Iron Bull, the Qunari commander of a merc band that joined up with the Inquisition was on her side. He slapped her face lightly and shook her by the shoulders. "Get in close. He's got long arms but it won't make a difference if you're inside his chest.”

She nodded, rolling her wrists and her neck. She turned and she and Solas met in the centre, neither raising their fists. 

From the sidelines, Varric yelled, "Let's make this a clean fight. No hair pulling, girls." 

Laughter erupted from around them, but Hero kept her eyes on Solas. 

"You really don't have a problem fighting a woman?" She smirked, bouncing her weight between her feet. 

He rolled his shoulders. "Not at all, lethallen.”

She nodded and kicked him hard in the side. He stumbled, but caught himself, eyes narrowed. Hero waited, her heart pounding, adrenaline and awareness of Solas rushing through her veins. He lunged at her. She blocked a punch aimed at her face, another at her side, catching the third in her stomach with more force than she’d expected from the mage. Hero groaned, the pain peaking, then subsiding. She pushed him off her and hit him hard in the jaw. He recoiled with a fierce intensity in his eyes, but lashed out immediately, kicking her foot out from under her. She used her fall to roll away. 

She bounced on her feet, waiting for Solas to strike first now. He circled her like a wolf, panting harder than she. He pounced, fainting to the left then throwing a right hook that she failed to block and caught full in the face. She fell to a knee in the soft ground, blinking the stars from her vision. She'd have a black eye. She looked up at him. He smirked, brushing his thumb over his lip where he’d hit him. A dark feeling welled up in her. He wouldn't kick her while she was down. 

His mistake. 

She lunged, grabbed him by the waist and hit him hard twice in the side. He groaned, and spun, throwing her off him. He wasn't smiling now. Solas blocked her punch and she dodged his. She leapt away, then surged forward, but Solas caught her wrist. They were pressed together and eye to eye, Hero vulnerable, Solas slick with sweat already, his gaze dark and vicious. He landed a blow just below her solar plexus that sent her staggering. 

Hero doubled over, an arm limply wrapped around her stomach, feigning weakness. Solas fell for her ruse and kicked out at her side. She caught his foot, and watched the surprise of a man who knows he’s been had bloom in his face. She punched him in the mouth as she pulled his leg, and he fell heavy on his back. He rolled away from her kick but she punched him in the soft spot below his ear as he tried to get to his feet. He kicked out at her legs, knocking her to her knees against him.

He grabbed her round the hips. Hero tried to pull away, hitting him in the face and ears, but their proximity gave her punches no force. He felt his heart pounding under his sweat soaked vest. He hit her once in the side, then lifted her off the ground. He threw her down and she cried out. She hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of her. She gasped as Solas knelt over her, grinning. He lashed out, but Hero caught his wrist with her hand, slapping him open handed across the face hard enough to stun him, then bashing her forehead against his face. He tried to back off, but Hero wrapped an arm around his neck, using his motion to flip him on his back. He landed gracelessly in the dust and she straddled his waist, holding his right hand to the ground with her left. He was flushed and panting, and when he tried to force her off him she hit him twice and split his lip. Solas grabbed her wrist and held it to the ground. His pupils were blown wide, and his hand was vice around hers. 

"Fenedhis. I yield," he groaned. But there was more than just defeat in his eyes. He was afraid, embarrassed. 

Hero leapt off him. Cheers and groans erupted around them. He stood too, less gracefully than she. He walked off immediately, leaving his shirt behind. Hero watched him go. 

———

His fear was not of pain, nor his embarrassment at the loss of the fight, or loss of coin that drove Solas from the scene. It was that, if Hero had moved just slightly when she was straddling him, she'd have felt that he was terribly hard in his trousers. 

Unbidden images flooded his mind of her face, always so expressive, if she'd done so. Shock and confusion would worry her brow. She would avoid him, wouldn't talk alone with him or come to his house anymore in the night when she couldn't sleep with questions about the fade. He punched a stone wall and growled. He tore the wrappings from his fists, bloodied by him and her. He fadestepped the rest of the way to his house, slamming the door behind him and latching it. 

Solas rested his back against the door. He'd had inklings of this problem before, but never to this extent. He didn't stop being a man in Uthenera. His mind was busy, working, observing Thedas through the words and actions of spirits that reflected it, but his body stagnated, produced the same needs and passions he experienced awake. Only with no release. For thousands of years. 

He groaned and held his face in his hands as his cock throbbed against the lacing of his trousers. What if Hieronymus didn't avoid him? What if when he yielded, she lingered instead, her dark eyes fiery from the fight, her thighs warm and strong pressed against his hips? 

He checked the door was latched and lay wearily on the cot, resigning himself to quiet and lonely pleasure. Perhaps she would come to him that night, he thought, unlacing his breeches and thinking of her doing it for him, after he'd let her in with her aura of intensity she carried like a cloak. 

They wouldn't say much. She'd straddle him where he lay now like she had in the ring, but alone now she'd grind her hips against him. Pressure released and built as he stroked himself the way she might, a tight pleasure curling in his stomach and legs, curling like his fingers around her ass. She’d kiss the bruises on his face, his knuckles, and take his index finger into her mouth. He suppressed a groan, and continued his handiwork.

The vision of her mouth on his felt more real than anything he'd experienced in this strange new world. He tried to imagine what she would taste like, smell like so close to him that he could feel the angles and curves of her under her clothes against him. Might she whisper to him in Elven when he moved inside her, latha. He murmured the word aloud. Wild white pleasure shuddered through him like a wave desolating a village on the shore, leaving nothing of him behind. Hot semen splashed against his stomach. His breathing slowed and he listened for the wind. 

It was just a fantasy. She would not love him, and she could not know how to love him in his language. Even the keepers of the Dalish spoke like children, aliens. He turned toward the wall on his side, pulling himself together again. He thought again of her mouth making the shape of latha. It was only a fantasy, and it meant nothing. He was allowed to want to be loved. He was still a man. The Dinan'Shiral pulled at him, a weight dragging in the sand. To want love, yes, but to be loved was out of the question. Still, he thought of her eyes, which he'd noticed for the first time where not brown but quite green, as he drifted toward the fade. 

———

Solas felt a vibration in the fade, a rhythm that bothered and woke him from his daytime slumber. Someone was knocking on the door. He groaned and rolled over, running a hand over his face. He swung his legs off the cot, and ensured he was decent before standing to answer the door. 

Hieronymus stood before him in the orange light of evening, startled by his sudden appearance. A crisp wind blew into the house and lucidized Solas nearly as much as seeing her here. 

"Oh, sorry. Were you asleep?" she muttered. 

Solas ran a hand over his chest, feeling like he still had one foot in the fade. "I was." 

She wavered on his doorstep, running a hand over her shorn head, a nervous tick that Solas had noted before. One of her eyes was swollen and purple, and a heaviness settled in his stomach. 

"What can I do for you?" he asked, very aware his body in proximity to hers as he leaned against his doorway. 

She fumbled with a sack she held in her hands. "Well, I brought you some things." She fished out a fist-full of leafy stalks. "Some elfroot. I know you like it, and it's good for pain in a tea or tincture. Or sometimes I just chew it, which is what they did in my clan." She handed him the elfroot like a bouquet of flowers, and Solas felt a blush rise in his cheeks. She fumbled with the sack again and passed him a bundle of cloth, "and your tunic. I…" she began, but hesitated and shook her head, refusing to finish her thought. "You missed quite a string of fights. Blackwall beat Sera, then Cass beat Blackwall. The Iron Bull and Cassandra had to call a draw." 

"I can only imagine." Solas fidgeted with the tunic in his hands. Hero was waiting for him to invite her in or send her away. Something heavy and hard as a stone in his chest ached to think of biding her to leave, but letting her in was out of the question because he was quite sure he smelled like sex. His indecision could drive her from him, do his dirty work.

Contrary to his hopes and fears, Hero stood with him on the threshold. "I'm sorry," she said, meeting his eyes in the dim evening light. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I've let things get out of hand before, and when people got hurt I was rewarded. That life is behind me, or it should be. I don't want to lose you, your friendship, I can't lose control." 

Solas interrupted her with a hand on her shoulder, feeling his own control slipping. He wanted to dissolve her anxiety by force of will, but even he did not have that kind of magic. He used his words instead. "Quiet your mind, lethallen. You did not hurt me. It was an honour to experience your incredible grace and strength first hand." 

A blush bloomed in her cheeks. Solas rubbed his thumb along the curves of his shoulder. She stood nearly as tall as him and yet she looked at him from under her lashes when she replied. "You think I'm graceful?" 

His lips pulled into a wry grin. "It's not a subject for debate. No one who witnessed your victory over the dreaded apostate could say otherwise." 

Hero bit her lip and ran a hand restlessly over her hair. "I… You were good too. You were fast," she muttered. 

He chuckled halfheartedly, taking his hand from her shoulder to cover his mouth, not trusting himself. The sight of her lip caught between her teeth called forth a rakish intent. 

"I almost forgot," Hero said, standing straighter though the blush didn't leave her cheeks. "We've had word from Sascha. He'll be returning tomorrow." 

Solas dropped his hand, the uncomfortable pleasure that was building in him fleeing to be replaced by quiet distain. "Is that so? I suppose we will be returning to Redcliffe to assist the mages." 

She frowned. "I suppose so." 

She did not like the mages, or did not approve of the Inquisition siding with them. He locked away this piece of knowledge for later. 

"I should be going, then," she muttered, breaking him from his reflection. She bowed a little, an Orlesian tradition. 

"Indeed," he said, and then as she walked away, "thank you," but he did not think she heard him. 

He closed his door against the wind, and in the dark and quiet, a warmth spread through him. He held his forehead against the cool of the door, a hand fisted in his shirt that she had returned to him. "Stay away from her," he repeated to himself. 

———

The ease with which they walked into an obvious and deadly trap astounded Hero. Only a door man resisted them, until Hero politely explained that a seeker, an apostate, and a bard were the Herald of Andraste's valet. And Alexius was so pleased to see them, his grin was positively murderous. 

"I'm sure we can find an arrangement that is equitable to all parties," he said as Sascha stepped forward to stand over him on the dais. 

Hero's fist tightened over her sword, and she watched the archers standing sentry around the hall watch her back. She internally begged Sascha to be careful, but he did not know the meaning of the word. 

Alexius' grin vanished when Sascha spoke of the Venatori, and turned to flame and rage as Dorian Parvus appeared and confessed his treachery. In his raving, he revealed the Chantry's nightmare was his plan, for mages to rule over all of Thedas as they do in Tavinter, and beneath that, the mastermind of this plan, someone called the Elder One. In Hero's mind passed a horrible voice and a vision of red, as she'd see him in the fade through the eyes of the dead. 

The guards were shot down around them even as Alexius' ramblings reached its crest, and Hero relaxed only a little, an instinct which was a betrayal. Because Alexius' actions were not rooted power or ideology, but his son, Felix. Because in love there is a madness that gives us the will do to the impossible. Because if she'd not relaxed, she may have seen the amulet he held, and warned Sascha. But all she could do was watch as Dorian tried to defend the Herald, before being swallowed with him in a green mouth of magic. 

"Sascha," she screamed, running forward as it shuttered closed. An arm caught her around the waist and forced her to her knees, saving her from a wave of destruction that burst from the hole in space and time. Cassandra drew her weapon, crying out in horror, and Hero felt Solas behind her and his arm holding her fast. His voice shook when he muttered "it's too late." 

Shock and silence rang through the hall. There was no Herald, no hope, and fat tears fell to the stones beneath her. A silent sob ripped through her. Solas held her tighter. 

The air exploded again and vapour reeking of magic flowed from the portal that spit Sascha and Dorian back into the room. 

"You'll have to do better than that," said the mage with a cocky smile, and Alexius fell to his knees in defeat. 

Hero stood and wiped the wet from her face as Sascha approached, Not Alexius or Cassandra, but her. He was was shaken, bloody and dirty, and something she'd not seen on him before filled his face. He threw his arms around her. 

"You died for me," he whispered. His voice was thick with tears. "I told you not to but you saved my life." 

She held him close, and he felt small to her. "Well, yeah." 

After that the Herald was incoherent with tears. She shut her eyes and cried too, the way she'd cried with her sister in the rain outside Kirkwall, and she began to understand why she was here. 

———

The Herald had traveled to the future and seen the consequences of the Inquisition's mission should it fail. He was saved by his friends to whom he felt he owed nothing. Now he had some kind of gratitude that he could not even express in words as an apology. It would be short-lived, and an excuse to misuse the Inquisition a little longer. One would think in light of such an experience, the Herald would have adopted a modicum of empathy, but if he did it was not enough to spare the mages. He brought them into the fold of the Inquisition as prisoners of war, to do his bidding on penalty of death, without hope of the freedom they'd fought for. 

Solas watched Hieronymus and knew he could not warn her properly for the dangers she'd face by the side of such a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Thank you to the immortal and talented roselightfairy for her beta on the fight scene. I had so much fun writing it but she made it readable. 
> 
> 2\. Fuck the 4 person team limit. Sascha is scared and reasonably incompetent. I'm pretty sure Cassandra would let a few more people on the team just to keep his ass out of the ditches.
> 
> 3\. I just wanted to clarify that I don't head-canon Solas as a sadist or masochist. I don't think it was the beatdown that turned him on as much as Hero's athleticism. Not to mention that he is 5000 years horny. 
> 
> Last but not at all the least, Thank you so much to everyone who is reading and keeping up with my dumpster-fire story. Your comments and kudos sustain me exclusively.


	8. Something She Carries Which I Am Forbidden to See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the hiatus. I've learned to embroider. This chapter took a lot out of me, and I originally planned for it to go twice as far in terms of moving the plot along, but Hero had a lot to say and do. 
> 
> Content Warning: Discussion of Sexual Assault; Self Harm

Chapter 7. Something She Carries Which I Am Forbidden to See

Hero was exhausted. Not that this was news; she'd spent her entire life exhausted. But this was different. Hero rode into Haven alone, slumped against her saddle with the fade clawing at her back. 

Moving the mages was a task for an army, but the Inquisition barely had a troop of soldiers at their disposal. When Sascha declared he would return to Haven before the mages, leaving Cassandra and Hero to shoulder the whole task, she thought 'how hard could it be?' But logistics were not her strong-suit, and the Inquisition was an army of logistics. 

Cassandra returned a couple of days early to ensure the mage's safe arrival, and during the interim Hero organised the mages in the wake of their banishment. Hero was the last to leave Redcliffe after signing a peace treaty with Queen Anora on behalf of the Inquisition. If she'd been the Herald, she might have shirked the responsibility as well. 

Sleep claimed Hero finally in the late afternoon as her horse rocked slowly with his steps as they reached the row of tents. She didn't notice as she slipped sideways, nor the shout and armoured arms catching her fall. 

It was the smell of fur against her face that disturbed and woke her. She opened an eye to see Cassandra wrangling her pony, spooked by the sudden movement, and felt herself being carried by a man in the most horrendous coat. 

"Uh, Cullen?" she murmured. "Put me down." 

He started, then set her on a bench where she swayed and struggled to sit upright. "Are you injured?" He almost sounded concerned. 

She ran a hand over her face, feeling twitchy and sick with sleep. "No. I'm just…" His hand was on her arm, and she shook it off aggressively. "I'd just rather not be touched, Knight Captain." 

He pulled his hand back sharply as she rubbed hard at their chest to wake herself up, a trick Dinan had taught her. She scowled at him. "How are the mages?" 

"They are getting settled," he reported, and Hero detected some distain in his tone. "They arrived all in safety, and more quickly than we could have hoped for thanks to you. I can only hope they will stay that way until we can close the breach." 

"Excellent," Hero sneered. "Because what happens to them after that is completely irrelevant." 

The Commander pursed his lips. "Lord Trevelyan has declared that they will return to the circles after they've closed the breach. If that is a problem for you, take it up with him." 

"I believe I shall." Cullen still knelt before Hero, an intimate position despite their animosity. Hero wanted to stand over him, push him down, but sleep still tugged at her, unraveled her resolve. She looked at him properly. There were circles under his eyes to match her own. He may have had as many worries enough, but with the delirium something else swam in her. It rose like a tide, pulling a derisive grin to her face. “Tell, me, Knight Captain, do you remember them?” 

“Remember who?” he asked, looking up at her. 

Her sneer widened. “The mages who were under your charge.” 

“Ah,” he grimaced. “Yes, Leliana did tell me who you are,” he said with distain. “I do remember something of your time in Kirkwall.” 

“I didn’t ask if you knew me.” Hero wanted to slap him. “I want to know if you remember her.” 

“Your sister? I’m afraid I do not. There were many Dalish in the circle and nothing but her miraculous escape made her extraordinary.” 

Hero did stand up now, though the world turned around her. She towered over Cullen and felt the weight of history dragging her feet down. “She remembers you.”

“She’s dead, Scout Lavellan.” 

“Did any complaints make their way to you about the templars behavior with her? Did you investigate any reports of their abuses? Did you see bloodstains on the tiles of the baths, or do those wash away easily enough? Did you suspect they were exploiting their power, threatening her with the right of tranquility if she screamed? Did you hear them talk over pints about the things they made her do? Did it turn you on? Did you seek her out yourself, or join your comrades when they locked the door behind them, used the smite on her while they raped her…” 

Cullen stood suddenly, his lips making a thin line, his eyes cold and hard as stone as he looked down at her. “You’re exhausted, Lavellan. Get some rest.” 

She spat at his feet before he walked away from her, calm except for the hardness in his shoulders. 

Hero had listened to her sister’s stories as they’d sought out clan Lavellan together. She knew the names of every Templar who’d laid a finger on her. Dinan wanted to return one day and burn them all, burn the Gallows to the ground with every templar, mage, and tranquil inside still. So Hero knew Cullen, knew her sister’s recollection of him, and knew he was not such a monster. He never touched her sister or any mage as far as she knew. That did not make him less culpable. 

———

It was warm in her tent with the waining daylight aglow against the canvas. She stripped as much as she could, to her tunic and leggings, before falling onto her cot and sinking immediately into sleep. 

For several moments, the unconscious hope bloomed that she would sleep in darkness, no dreaming, just rest. Then she saw the shimmering reflection of the fade, Haven layered through time and quaking, as though she watched it beneath the ripples of a lake. She rose through the surface, crouched in water. She felt the cold on her skin, but she remained warm. She did not want to open her eyes. 

“Io’len.” A voice echoed over the ice, and Hero looked up. 

Dinan sat on the shore. 

Without walking Hero was sitting with her.

“It’s good to see you,” said the ghost. She sat tall and her eyes glowed silver in the fade light that shone from the rift, which was blue from this side. Her hair spilled like crimson blood over her shoulders and her full lips formed a patronising smirk. “You shouldn’t be asleep.” 

“No one can go without sleep forever,” Hero whispered. Her voice was always deeper in the fade, like an echo belonging to someone else. 

“If you’d waited another day we could have avoided this family reunion.” 

“I fell asleep on my horse.”

Dinan’s eyes narrowed. “You’re on a horse?”

“No, that was earlier.” Hero looked around them. Up the mountain in the remains of the temple, the ghosts of thousands clamoured their deaths. She’d been there and she didn’t want to see it again. “How can you talk to me here? No one else can.” 

“A gift of the Dreamers. We are lucid even in death. That is Renan’s theory anyway.” 

Hero sat up straighter. “You can talk with him?”

“Death and the fade are not so complicated or lawful as the world. I do what I want here.”

“Death suits you,” Hero quipped. “Though you did what you wanted wherever you were.” 

“Enough about me,” Dinan said, stretching and looking at Hero like a scheming cat. “Why have you brought me here?” 

Hero frowned. “I didn’t bring you here.”

“Give yourself credit. You’re a dreamer too, though of a different sort. You bend the fade to your will.”

Hero fidgeted with her hands. “I fought with Commander Cullen. Well, I fought at him.” 

“He’s been promoted? Good for him.”

“He left the Templars when the rebellion began,” she said shrugging. 

“How is he? Wretched, I hope.”

“I think so.” 

“What about the other man, the one who glows? Tell me about him.” Dinan was giving her an intense look, like she was suggesting something obscene. 

“Well, he’s an asshole. The power has gone to his head, and I’m not even sure he means well. He reminds me of you, actually. The herald would be dangerous if he had your conviction, though.” 

Dinan’s laugh echoed like bells though the valley and some ghosts sneered at her for her glee. “I appreciate that analysis, and also that you thought I was talking about the Herald of Andraste.”

“Who?” Hero began. 

“Pride. The elf.” 

“Oh, him.” Hero had never felt herself flush in the fade before. “Does he glow?”

“He does in the fade.” 

“What does that mean?”

Dinan crawled closer to Hero like a lover. “You’d best hope the Dread Wolf doesn’t catch your scent. Remember father’s stories about what happens to those he takes.” 

The snow was slick and when Hero tried to push herself away, careful not to touch Dinan. “Please, don’t.” 

But Dinan’s figure was already shimmering before her fingers sunk under the skin of Hero’s cheek, cold as the water, savage as red lyrium. “You shouldn’t have fallen asleep. We could have avoided this family reunion.”

Hero couldn’t move, frozen in panic, mind and body, as Dinan pressed herself into Hero, their flesh mirrored. And before her lips melted against Hero’s, she saw as her face was blown from her skull by the blast at the conclave. The flames of the explosion tore their skin apart and Hero screamed along with all the ghosts of the dead at the Temple. 

———

Hero woke freezing and soaked through with sweat. Nausea hit her like a wall and she wretched over the edge of her cot. The scout she shared her tent with grumbled in his sleep and turned away from her. The canvas of the tent which was so inviting and private when she fell asleep there only hours before was too close, too tight now. She wanted to tear her way out, but stumbled to the opening instead. There was no moon but the camp was lit by the pulsing glow of the Breach. 

She stomped through the snow, away from the eyes of scouts, and stumbled over her numb feet. She was shivering, not from cold but from the pain still screaming in her nerves. A groan tumbled from her lips, and she collapsed in the snow by a cliff face. It was sharp and icy, and her wet hands pressed hard against its ridges. 

She punched it hard. At first all she felt was the dullness of cold, but then a wild throbbing pain crawled up her arm. It left a warmness behind and chased the fade away from her body. Blood oozed from cuts on her knuckles. She punched it again. 

She picked a round stone from under the snow, and brought it down on her thigh. The jolt drew a gasp from her, but she repeated the action until tears left from her eyes. Hero tore at the skin of her arms and chest with her fingers, leaving red welts where her scratches met scars. She kept her nails short to avoid any real damage, but bruises would bloom there anyway. 

Hero lay soaked and bleeding in the snow, biting her cheek until she tasted herself. This was a trick she’d taught herself. When she could not keep from sleeping and she couldn’t tell anyone, not even Dinan, of what she saw and felt in the fade, she turned to pain. Ever since she was a child and her sister had first put the fear of the gods in her. 

She waited for the ice to claim her and bruised herself when the screams in the fade reached their crescendo until the sun rose, then returned to her tent to clean the sick from the floorboards. 

———

The teacup was hot as firestones in her hand. It didn’t burn but spread a lovely feeling around Hero. Minaeve had come to visit her in her tent just after dawn. She was still soaked with ice water as she knelt, scrubbing the floorboards next to her somehow still sleeping tent-mate. 

Minaeve was not happy to find her this way. 

They were curled together on the lush Antivan cushions before the fire in Josephine’s office. The ambassador herself was acquiring a lyrium supply for the Inquisition and would be out all day, or so Minaeve assured her. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, for perhaps the tenth time. 

Hero shrugged. “It’s just a cold,” she assured in a thick voice. 

“A cold you got from running around in not but your pyjamas?” 

“No. I’d been feeling sick for a few days.”

Minaeve smiled peacefully at Hero, something she’d picked up from the tranquil she cared for. Hero thought Minaeve was the best kind of person to be her friend, someone used to quiet and unfeeling company. She could see her needs when Hero couldn’t voice them. She didn’t make small talk. 

They sat pressed close together while Minaeve worked when the door opened and the intruder uttered a quiet, “oh.” 

“Come in,” Hero muttered, examining a book on shades Minaeve had been referencing. “People never seem to want to come in when Josephine isn’t here.” 

The door closed. “It was the Ambassador I wished to speak with,” Solas said. 

Hero turned about a little too quickly and brushed spilled tea off her tunic. 

Minaeve watched them both. “She is in meetings all day.” 

“But if it’s ambassadorial advice you need,” Hero said, “I might be of some assistance.” 

Solas appraised her quietly with his arms clasped behind his back. “I am working with Commander Cullen on organising the mages efforts to close the breach. He needs her counsel.”

Her face fell. “Oh, sorry. I can’t help you with that.”

“I thought not,” he said with a smirk. 

“Perhaps he could try treating the mages like free people.” 

“I’m sure he would appreciate that advice.”

“Just not from me,” she said playfully. 

“I think the Herald is the only one who appreciates advice from you.” 

“Does that include you?”

“I certainly find it entertaining,” he said with a wicked grin. 

Hero felt Minaeve smirking next to her, but ignored her. “Entertainment is the work of a bard.” 

He raised an eyebrow at her. “I thought it was murder.” 

“Murder can be entertaining.” 

Hero could see the hearth-fire reflected in his eyes and felt the energy in the room shift with his expression, from warm and mischievous to cold as the morning. “Indeed,” was his reply, and he bowed to the pair before slipping out. She relaxed against the cushions, feeling her back cramping from the ramrod straight posture she’d adopted while he was in the room. 

“You like him,” Minaeve said to her book. 

Hero pulled her cowl over her head and ears, though she certainly wasn't cold anymore. “Gods know why.” 

Minaeve looked at her from under her lashes in a way that very much reminded Hero of her brother. “Not as much as he likes you.” 

“So help me I’ll burn down your house if you don’t stop, harrellan.” 

“Perhaps you should talk to him,” Minaeve said, taking a sip of her tea. 

A wave rose up in Hero, like the presence of the fade but voiceless, humming his her ears. The world was ending around them. How dare she give weight to a crush. But she would go to him later anyway, and he would tell her stories of his adventures in the fade, so much more beautiful than hers. 

Hero stood. For all her time with the tranquil, Minaeve was incredibly expressive. 

“Wipe that smug look off your face,” she said as she left. 

———

Hero didn’t get very far. She met Josephine in the threshold of the Chantry. 

“Solas is looking for you,” Hero said, stepping past her.

Josephine reached out, taking Hero’s arm gently. “Yes. I spoke with him just now, but I have a pressing matter of business I would like to discuss with you.” 

Hero froze as one who knows they are in trouble but not what for. “Oh?”

The ambassador handed her a worn parchment that had been folded tightly many times over. Hero recognised the script. 

“I received this letter from the Free Marches today. It is from Keeper Ithaca Lavellan. He enquires about the mages he sent from his clan to the conclave.”

Hero scanned the letter, which was short and diplomatic. “He does not know I am here, then,” she said, turning the parchment in her hand. “But he does already know the fate of his mages. I’ve never known him to voice a lack of knowledge. He would not have written if he were uncertain.”

“How should we respond?” Josephine was watching Hero carefully. 

Hero worried the letter with her thumb. “Would you allow me to pen the response. I will, of course, run the draft past you first.” 

Josephine bowed a little. “As you wish. But, my I ask, is the Keeper a threat to the Inquisition?” 

“Is family not always the greatest threat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kudos and comments. I hope the next chapter will come more easily. Happy Halloween.
> 
> Also, check out my Tumblr (https://thevillainsmustache.tumblr.com) if you're interested. I don't post much original content, but I sometimes give out updates. Cheers.


	9. Teach Us To Care and Not To Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the long wait. Here it is. Gods help us.

Chapter 8. Teach Us To Care and Not To Care

The mages were due to make an attempt on the breach in less than a day’s time. Everything was prepared, the mages were ready with their orders, and still Solas worried. Corypheus shouldn’t have been able to unlock the power of the orb to such an extent, and the exact process that created the breach, which he still supposed to be part-accident, was a mystery to him. He’d assured the Herald and the Inquisition that this fresh assault on the breach would be successful, but his theories about the breach were only theoretically sound. If he could only perform some more tests, if he could only have the orb… But then he wouldn’t be here if that were the case. 

Tensions were already so high with the mages jumping from their skins and the Herald tearing at his own power that if they failed to close the breach tomorrow there was a probable chance that Sascha would take his head as retribution. 

So Solas worked. He met with the advisors, kept them up to date with the plan, organised the mages, scouted the temple, chased down every worst case scenario, planned his escape should things take a turn for the worst. 

It was evening when he sat Fiona in Commander Cullen’s currently vacated office, pouring over blueprints he’d penned of the temple ruin, giving her a clear idea of her mages’ positions and their escape routes. 

To her credit, she listened attentively, despite the fact they had already been over the positions and routes twice. Solas frowned when she brought up this fact. 

“I’m only ensuring we are entirely prepared. We only get one opportunity to close the breach.”

“And why is that?” She asked in her smooth Orlesian accent. “The mages are not in a position to simply leave if we fail.” 

Solas spoke hesitantly. “No, but I expect the result of a failure will be… somewhat catastrophic.” This was the first time he’d expressed any doubts about his plan. But if he trusted anyone allied with the Inquisition to keep to themself his fears, it was Grand Enchanter Fiona. Besides the Herald, the mages would be in the most immediate danger should this plan fail after all. 

Fiona nodded solemnly. “I see. One way or the other, this is the end. I should have taken better care of my people.”

An old ache pulsed through Solas. He sat back and slid his hands from the table to hide how they fisted against the vicarious despair. “It’s not over. Rebellion never dies in the hearts of the oppressed.” 

“Perhaps,” she said, “but it is over for me.” She stood. “We should rest. Our actions tomorrow will decide the fates of many.”

Solas watched her go, and listened when she paused at the entrance. 

“Thank you for your counsel. I will not forget your kindness to us.”

He rested his head in his hands, pulling his focus back to the present. The Inquisition was prepared for the assault on the breach. There was nothing more he could do, besides rest. His friends in the fade may know some way to help the mages when this is all finished. It is the least he could offer.

A storm was building in Haven. The sky was dark and angry around the breach, though it was still several hours until dusk. Solas was lost in thought until he reached his house and saw there was someone sitting leaned against it. 

Hero raised her head as he approached. She worried a piece of parchment with her thumbs.  
“To what do I owe this pleasure,” he asked with a bit more bite than he intended. Hero had done well bringing the mages to Haven, but her hostility towards Commander Cullen only made the situation more complicated. He too wanted to yell at all those who had abused their power, but unlike she, he had better things to do. 

Hero stood and bowed her head in greeting, while still giving him a weary look. “I could use your advice.”

Solas hesitated, then with a sigh he opened the door to his house and gestured for Hero to enter. He hesitated again before closing the door behind them. The air felt close and warm. 

Hero paced before the fire, and Solas watched how the light shone over the angels of her face. She was flushed and anxious, her lips pulled into a grimace. She was yet to voice her reason for coming, and a traitorous thought tumbled through Solas’ mind. ‘She’s here for you,’ it said. 

“What would you like to discuss,” he says, interrupting his own train of thought. He sat in the only chair in the room, leaving Hero to sit on his bed or remain standing. She chose neither and sat on the floor. 

“I,” she said haltingly, still fiddling with the parchment in her hand. 

Solas folded his hands in his lap, determine to clear some things up if she was here and unwilling to speak her mind. “Perhaps we could discuss the mages. You seem very interested in their condition.” 

“What about them?” Hero sat up, looking at Solas like she’d found an ally at long last. 

Solas smirked as he felt the trick rise up in him. “You were hesitant to join them at all, even after we discovered the Venatori’s plan to indenture them.” 

“Oh, well, something about that whole situation didn’t add up.” Solas waited for her to elaborate. “The Inquisition and the welfare of the Herald were my primary concerns.” 

“And yet you antagonise Commander Cullen.”

Hero was taken aback by his change of tone. She narrowed her eyes. “Do you know his and my history?”

“Some of it, yes.”

“And do you think you know enough to judge my actions?” she snapped. 

Solas leaned forward, almost whispering. “Your actions? You speak as though you’re some great champion to the mages but you don’t really care what happens to them. You’ve done nothing to ensure their safety while closing the breach, nothing to negotiate their wellbeing when they’re sent back to the circles. Vivienne will be their new leader. You could speak to her.”

“Vivienne hates elves,” Hero sneered. “She wouldn’t listen to me.” 

“No one likes elves. The Herald is far more prejudiced than Madame de Fer, and he listens to your counsel. The truth is you’re no champion. You’re a reactionary. What do you really believe in, besides your own conviction?” 

Hero stammered. “I didn’t come here for a lecture. I think the Inquisition may be in danger. I received a letter from my father.” Her hand twitched as if she might pass the parchment she held to him. 

“I don’t understand,” Solas said flatly. 

Hero pocketed the letter. “He’s the Keeper of my clan. He asked about Renan and Dinan, but he… knows things. He has power.” 

Solas smiled kindly. “Ah, yes. Forgive me. I sometimes forget that you’re Dalish.” 

Hero’s face turned scarlet. A shout and every curse she knew built in her chest, but she simply whispered, “excuse me?” 

Solas didn’t see her. He watched his hands, smirking to himself. “I don’t think there is anything a Keeper of the Dalish could know or do that could threaten the Inquisition.” 

He looked up when she stood suddenly, and his self-satisfied expression dissolved. He thought she might hit him. Under the rage in her eyes there was betrayal. 

Solas lips parted to utter an apology but she cut him off. “Fenedhis lasa, Solas. You fucking bastard.” 

She left the door open behind her. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun rose over Haven for the last time and the Inquisition’s mages took their positions around the ruin of the temple. Everyone non-essential to the closing of the breach was moved away from the temple, which included Hieronymus. ‘Good,’ Solas thought. He didn’t need the distraction. But she didn’t need to be there to linger in his thoughts. 

He tried to go to her, to make some kind of apology or explanation, but she was nowhere to be found that night. He wandered through the woods, imagining her perched in a tree high above, away from him, away from the Herald. Away from the fade and how it haunted her. A bard is not seen unless they want to be, and he had no doubt being seen by him was the last thing she wanted. 

So now he pressed on. Any apology would be useless to Hero if Sascha couldn’t close the breach. The quiet was eerie, a hundred mages breathing silently in a space, ready for his signal as the breach thrummed with power. 

Sascha stepped forward followed by Cassandra. The mark flared and crackled in proximity to the fade and Sascha winced. He looked at Solas, searching for some assurance or comfort. Solas gave him none, but nodded to him grimly. 

The Herald stepped forward, hand raised and ready when Solas lifted his staff, calling out in a voice he’d used to command armies and incite riots. “Mages! Focus past the Herald. Let his will draw from you!”

The breach flexed and groaned under the strain of power that flowed from the mages into Sascha. The Herald himself was braced, hand raised and ready. If he was afraid, Solas couldn’t tell. 

“Now!” Solas cried, and every mage pushed their power into Sascha. The mark flared and shot like a bolt of lighting into the Breach. It swelled like a bloated body in the hot sun, and filled the mountainside with a tremendous noise. The ground shook, the air rent, and the ruin began to fall when a wave of light pulsed from the breach. 

It hit him like a punch, the shock of the fade crashing against the world and closing the breach behind it. Solas was thrown and landed hard on his back. Around him mages were groaning, and Cassandra was struggling to her feet. She ran forward, through the haze of smoke as it cleared. 

Sascha knelt cradling his arm. The mark still flared, but the breach was sealed. Solas stood and looked around. It was almost too much to believe. It worked. 

When Sascha turned to the mages, they cheered. 

Solas stepped away from the scene. It was over now. The mages would return to the circle and they cheered for their slaver. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sascha strutted around Haven, loud and pissed. Once again he was the hero of the hour, the saviour of Thedas. Never mind the mages who did the work, or Solas who planned it all, or Cassandra who kept the Inquisition together, or any other soul imaginable who could be counted among the Inquisition’s forces. 

Hero crouched moodily by the fire, listening to the joy and relief around her with less than comparable reverie. It was over now, and who could regret anything that they’d done? Sascha was hanging off Dorian, who held him bemusedly. Sera told stories for the amusement of a small crowd of soldiers who laughed and fell off their seats. Even Commander Cullen could be seen sitting in an almost relaxed manner. Solas was likely off somewhere patting himself on the back. 

She regretted nothing. She fingered the letter in her pocket, then let it flutter into the fire. The fire devoured her father’s words, and she wished it could eat hers up too, every word she ever said and every one she ever would. 

Cassandra wandered over, hips swaying in the lovely intimidating way that was as much her signature as the slash of her sword. Hero glanced up at her, but looked away when Cass knelt next to her, under the pretence of warming her hands. 

“Solas confirms the heavens are scarred, but calm,” she said quietly with a smile in her voice. 

Hero grumbled and held her arms tighter around herself. 

“The breach is sealed. There are reports of lingering rifts, but this is a victory.” 

The elf looked over at her companion to see her and eyebrow lifted questioningly at her. “What do you want, a congratulations? Why are you telling me this? Sascha is your Herald.”

Cassandra frowned. “He is not in a position to receive my report.”

They both looked over to see Sascha Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, kissing on a very flushed Dorian’s throat. 

“I suppose not. Your commitment to prompt reporting is admirable, but I still don't see what this has to do with me." 

Cassandra watched the horizon where the breach lingered over them until this morning. “I do not believe this Inquisition was not what Divine Justinia had in mind when she announced the conclave. Our Herald, our mission, this is not what she intended. For all our work and conviction, this victory was a matter of luck. ” 

Hero’s lips parted in a wry grin. “Cassandra?” she murmured. 

“Do not take this for a lack of faith. Andraste could not imagine the Chantry as it is today. But the Herald is no saviour. It is those who stay willingly that decide the fate of the Inquisition.”

The fire that crackled before them shifted in the wind, and Hero narrowed her eyes. Nothing about what she’d done since she joined the Inquisition had felt willing, but she could leave any time. No one would stop her, and now that the rift was closed, why didn’t she? 

The question rolled around in her with no answer, only a feeling so strong and only interrupted by the cacophonous clanging of the alarm bell. 

Hero and Cassandra stood, and from their vantage they could see a horde flowing over the mountain towards haven, their torches like many eyes in the night. 

She snatched up her swords and strapped them to her back. “Fuck,” she growled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're out there and still reading this, gods bless you. This story should pick up the pace now that the world is really ending. and perhaps I can actually write it. Thank you.


End file.
